Christmas in Albuquerque
by OuvreLeChien
Summary: Jesse finds himself alone on Christmas. He doesn't take it well. *Reupload* Walt/Jesse
1. Christmas in Albuquerque

**A/N: **Back by request, !super sorry! for the repost but I did decide to do some editing which forced me to reread this for the first time in like two years. Also I noticed the story was still getting follows so I thought I should finally officially close it since even thought I meant to I honestly don't think I'm going anywhere else with this? :u Also sorry for the errors regarding weather in NM, I tried to look it up but I got lazy. :c Anyway y'all are beautiful and I love you xoxo

M rating for language and sexual content and some other stuff like substance abuse

...

**Christmas in Albuquerque **

Snow in the ABQ was typically an event of no account. Even in the coldest season the temperature seldom sank below 50ºF during the day and any bit of loose powder that dared to fall on northern New Mexican sidewalks rarely lasted past five a.m. People milling around in those ungodly hours of morning might glimpse a few proud inches of snow sitting smugly before the sun rose to obliterate it, but to anybody waking at a normal time, the roads would appear as they always did, as if frost had never touched them at all.

Christmas evening this year was an exception. In a complete aberration, the city had been hit by a flurry of sorts, and as always when more than three or four inches of snow threatened to drop, people flipped out. Stores that managed to stay open on the holiday ended up closing early, people skipped work, the kids probably would have gotten a snow day if the "storm" hadn't come so late. There were still those courageously drudging forward through the weather, determined to make it to the homes of loved ones so they might spend the holiday together, but mostly the world beyond the cozy suburban homes was quiet.

In the midst of this, sitting dismal and unaffected and barely aware of the snow outside the window, was a young man named Jesse. He was sacked out on his living room futon, snacking lackadaisically from a bag of potato chips. One might think he would also be staring at a television, but there was none. It always took him a long time to accumulate furniture; he had only finally bothered to get a table set for the dining room last month, and he almost never used it anyway, always opting to eat on the futon, which doubled as his bed and chair. It was the only other piece of furniture in the room besides his coffee table, which he now propped his feet up on. His cellphone sat silently beside one of his white sneakers, untouched. For the past nine or so hours he had sat, waiting for it to ring. He hadn't checked his watch all day but he supposed it must have been about seven in the evening. Plenty early, everybody would be just finishing their Christmas dinners, and moving on to gathering around in the living room, possibly exchanging gifts if they hadn't already done so. He imagined his parents and his brother doing this very thing, and wondered if maybe they were thinking about him.

An hour later when the phone still didn't ring he picked it up and dialled, and somehow he wasn't surprised when the only voices that greeted him were recorded and the politeness in them was reserved for more welcome callers.

_Maybe they went to someone else's house for Christmas. _

He thought it only to console himself and he knew right away it wasn't true. His family never visited relatives, not since Jenny died. They weren't close to any others and the rest of the extended Pinkmans lived on the other side of the planet anyway.

Jesse sat his cell back down and leaned into the cushions, filled with a powerful craving for a beer. He'd bought multiple cases at the start of the week, as if expecting this evening, knowing how it would unfold, and how he would feel as it wound down and he was still alone in his empty house.

So he got up and dragged himself into the kitchen, meaning only to grab himself a bottle to take back with him to the futon, instead hefting the entire case out of the fridge and lugging it back to the living room.

And after the first five or six everything started to blur.

...

_A bird is cawing somewhere nearby when Jesse leans against the back of the high school, waiting for his friends. He only remembers the sound so clearly because of how annoying it was, like a broken vacuum cleaner firing up, then dying down, then firing up again. He was getting ready to go out and hunt the stupid thing when his buddies finally joined him._

_"Jesus, what took you so long?" he grouses. He starts to pull the joint out of his pocket - it's his turn to bring the dope - but one of the guys stops him._

_He can still remember the sound that bird made, but not the names of the kids he used to hang out with nearly every day at J.P. Wynne. _

_"Wait," one of them says, a big shit-eating grin playing across his face. "We got something better." With the way his eyes are flaming Jesse thinks he must have already smoked whatever it was._

_Jesse's interest is kinda piqued. "What is it?" _

_They show him a little plastic baggie with some clear, salty-looking chunks at the bottom of it and Jesse, although not familiar with the substance, knows right away what it is, and he puts the brakes on right then and there. "No way!" he shouts, and one of the guys motions for him to keep it down, which he does, lowering his voice but not abandoning his disapproval. "Fucking _meth? _Why would I... What are you guys thinking?"_

_Now they're looking at him like he's just revealed himself to have secretly been a woman this entire time and he literally shrinks away from them a little bit, embarrassed. "What's your deal, Pinkman? You blaze up with us all the time."_

_"Yeah, weed, not crystal. Do you know what my parents would do if they caught me smoking that shit?" _

_The moment the words leave his mouth he knows he's made a colossal misstep in his speaking and he desperately tries to retract the idiotic statement but it's way too late. They're laughing so hard tears are squirting out of their eyes, tumbling over each other as they sink to the ground, overcome by Jesse's hilarity. He feels his face heat up with anger and humiliation and he snatches the baggie away from them without thinking about it, at which point their eyes turn up at him with renewed fascination, although the laughter doesn't stop right away._

_"Shut up, you dicks, and gimme a pipe."_

_It's just a drug. If he doesn't like it, he won't use it anymore. If he does, well, maybe he'll smoke it occasionally depending on how expensive it is, and how easy it is to keep it under his parents' noses. He'll just try it now. _

_Anything to get these morons to stop laughing. _

_He's handed a pipe and he packs some of the stuff into the bowl; judging by the dumb looks on his friends' faces he must have put in either way too much or way too little. When he produces his lighter from his pocket and fires it up, he thinks it must have been the first one. _

_It feels like a cold wind just went through his bones._

_Then his body is ablaze and his lips start tingling then go numb. He uses the wall behind him to keep himself upright as his nerves start tangling up and the blood runs out of his legs and he slowly slides down to a sitting position and it feels like a hundred tiny little needles are stabbing into him. The pipe and the bag slip easily from his fingers and he can hear someone else lighting it up._

_"Where did you get this?"_

_"Brandon was selling it." _

_"The one who dropped out?"_

_Jesse's pulse is slamming like a shotgun and he badly wants to move but it feels like the instant he does he'll explode. He presses himself up against the wall and keeps himself completely still when the last thing in the world he feels like doing is just sitting there. His nails bite into his palms and he lets out a long, cold breath while his heart squirms in his chest. Suddenly everyone around him is running, scuttling, scattering like cockroaches. That's exactly what he'd like to do. Scurry away and hide under a rock. _

_Then he hears his name called. Footsteps come closer and they shake the earth around him. He hears snakes. He can feel them, too. He almost screams when he thinks they've touched him but when he looks all he sees is fingers. Square fingers where the skin sags at the joints and they're touching him, slapping his face gently and for a second he thinks he's staring into windows and that scares much of his trippy pleasure away but given another moment to look he discovers he's staring at the reflective surfaces of a pair of glasses._

_The rest of the pleasure goes with that. He can hear another fucked up noise and he thinks that damned annoying bird came back but when he's hauled to his feet and his respiration momentarily stops working, he realizes he had been listening to his own breathing. It was only a matter of time before one of the teachers caught them, although he feels tentative relief knowing they won't know exactly _what _he smoked. He's also confused as to why this teacher sounds like he's more worried about Jesse's health than pissed off that he was obviously doing drugs behind the school. Still, they will call his parents. He'll have to deal with that. God, all the trouble he'll be in, all the shit he'll have to deal with, just for that one stupid bowl._

_He's not even sure if he liked it or not._

...  


Jesse threw his arm out, aiming for the coffee table to set one of his many empty bottles down. The bottom of it clacked against the table surface noisily but threatened to tip over the instant Jesse tried to let go of it, irritating him so irrationally that instead of just balancing the stupid bottle he heaved his arm back and launched it across the room. It shattered dramatically against the wall, splashing the little bit of booze left in it onto the wallpaper.

Jenny had loved that wallpaper.

Misery immediately dropped in the pit of Jesse's stomach, causing him to groan a little as if he were actually physically pained by it, and he rolled on his side, meaning to turn his back to the rest of his alcohol and stop this stupid semi-bender before he caused permanent brain damage to himself or something. So quickly after he had turned away, though, he felt the thirst again and returned to it, snapping the lid off of yet another bottle on the edge of his table. Down, down, down, then another. Drink up, it's the holidays, live a little, celebrate.

His entire face was flushed and for some reason his eyes were burning but he still wasn't stopping and he realized that maybe he was _trying _to do permanent damage to himself. Maybe enough just to black out so that he could live through this lame night without going insane, maybe enough so that he would get the hugest alcohol buzz ever so he wouldn't need anything stronger, or maybe enough to pop a few veins in his brain and stop his heart so he'd never have to wake up again.

If he did drink himself into oblivion, how long would it be before anyone noticed? His parents were sure contenders to be the last ones to hear about it. Maybe they would be grief stricken or maybe they'd regret that they hadn't tried harder with him or maybe they would only come to his funeral so they could say 'I told you so' to his open casket. Pete and Badger didn't really come over on their own and they wouldn't be hit with any deep worry if Jesse didn't answer their infrequent calls. He could be rotting in his living room for months, realistically, and he probably wouldn't even know the first person to realize what had happened to him. It'd just be some neighbor or some pedestrian who noticed a bad smell near his house.

_God, why are you doing this to yourself? _

Because he deserved it. If nothing else proved it, the fact that he was alone on Christmas did. Who else besides assholes spent fucking Christmas by themselves drinking in their living rooms? And if that wasn't bad enough he was pitying himself at the same time. Feeling sorry for the sack of shit he had allowed himself to become instead of making any real effort to do anything about it. His small grasps at change had all been snuffed out pretty effectively and he had quit so _easily. _

He tried for another sip but either his lips trembled or his hand did. Either way he botched the shot somehow and dumped beer down his shirt front and almost like it had sunk into his pores and poisoned him that way everything instantly got a little fuzzier.

...

_Five in the morning and Jesse's awake. He's not surprised, he rarely ever gets through entire nights without being almost zapped out of sleep by something he never sees, with his eyes or in his head, some thought or some memory that comes back to him over and over, particularly during the night, interrupting whatever dreams he may have and forcing him awake. _

_He runs his hand along the floor in the darkness, looking for his jeans, hoping to fish a cigarette out of the pocket, not entirely certain there'll be one there since he goes through cigarettes a lot faster these days. His fingertips brush fabric; it's only his shirt. He gives up and rolls back into the middle of the mattress, bumping against another body, a warm, smooth female body, and what immediately goes through his head - _Jane _- makes him feel withered, makes sleep seem impossible, because even in this incomplete consciousness he realizes that Jane's not here now, never will be again. He involuntarily scoots forward again, away from the person in the bed. He doesn't want to be close to them. The other thought that comes to him is also automatic, pops into his head before he knows it, but it plays as a force in keeping him from others just the same._

_'I don't want you', is what he thinks, is what he always thinks, less a thought and more an accusation, unfair and absurd. 'You're not Jane and I don't want you.'_

_In the light of day he can feel kind of comfortable again, he can believe he's moved on somehow, he can spend time with other people and get back to trying to accept Jane's permanent absence. But in the dead of night when he lies awake in the darkness, his mind still partially asleep, he doesn't want anyone but her, doesn't want to keep going if he can't have her again. At those moments he thinks he would rather die alone than attempt to love anyone that way again, because even if he could it would be wrong somehow, like a betrayal. In those late nights and very early mornings when he's so far into his own shit he can't even remember anyone else's name, not even the woman in bed with him, he tortures himself by wondering how he would do it differently if he could. Would he be capable of doing the right thing, if someone gave him a time machine and told him he could go back, he could go back and never rent that room, would he be able to do it, to give up having known her? He hates himself for not knowing the answer, for clinging so selfishly to the sweet memories of her, not trusting himself to really be able to give them up if he had the chance to go back and erase their encounter from history. It would be better for everyone, especially her, and her dad (oh god her _dad_), Jesse supposes it would even be better for himself in a way because it would mean no more sleepless nights spent thinking he should have died instead. But even knowing this, he's still not sure he could do it even if he had the opportunity, which he never will. _

_He slides a hand up his bare arm, pressing his fingertips in until he can feel his veins bleating away under his skin. His blood is clean but his mind is far from it. He's disgusted by how often his thoughts are dominated by the memories of the drugs, and the first time a needle ever poked into him; he had literally felt like he was flying. Floating, at least, except he knew he wasn't going anywhere, and he thought of how fucking amazing sex would have been right then, but he couldn't even move so all he could revel in was a sickness so severe that it was almost sweet. Every night after the first one he could taste vomit in the corners of his mouth but none of it ever made it out._

_He only knows this because he's alive right now. _

_Bitterly he wonders why he only learns after he's already made the mistake. Why couldn't he have had this strength months ago? Why did it take until waking up next to the dead body of the only person who ever loved him for who he was? He could destroy himself within minutes obsessing over these questions, and the maddening lack of answers._

_Then the sun starts to come up, and some sense of normalcy returns. He makes his eyes close and often hands find him in the half darkness, assuming that he only turned from them in his sleep, his sleep which was natural and undisturbed, assuming that he'll feel better if he's touched and rubbed against and held._

_But he won't. He knows whose hands they are and he knows the only reason he's even in this bed right now is not because he really cares about this woman he has preyed upon but because he's making a pitiful grasp for some semblance of pleasure to balance out the nothingness. A false pleasure that only last moments, one he doesn't miss after it's over, one that does nothing to help him through the night. _

_'I'm sorry,' he thinks, not sure who he's directing the thought at, Jane or Andrea or no one at all._

...  


A loud crash briefly sent a small spark of awareness through Jesse's head, although it was such a small one that he didn't even realize the noise had been caused by his own body toppling off over the side of the futon and crashing into the table, which didn't turn over but was jostled just enough to send the bottles over the side and scatter glass across his floor. The twinkling smashing noises made Jesse lift his head up and he almost grieved the loss of the rest of his beer but he quickly saw the bottles that still had liquid in them hadn't broken.

Was this irony?

He dropped his head, not caring when it thumped against the ground even though he had already bumped it against the table hard enough to make it bleed. His damned cranium felt too heavy to move so he reached blindly for another drink without turning it, growling under his breath when his fingertips only brushed shards, and his hand roamed the floor more angrily so that when it came into contact with those sharp glass slivers they stuck in. He didn't even notice. His arm slowed, stopped, returned to his side. He cracked his eyes open and was confused when he saw the ceiling. How had he gotten onto the ground? He pulled his knees up, propped an elbow under himself, slapped one hand onto the floor and froze when something drove into his palm. He jolted into a sitting position and gazed, mystified, at the destroyed flesh of his hand, bright red blood running through his fingers, across his wrist, down his arm into the short sleeve of his t-shirt. He was sure he had been wearing a sweater before but he saw no sign of one when he stood himself up against the wall. Maybe it was because the room was spinning so fast he couldn't even make out the path in front of him.

He took an uncertain step in an uncertain direction and his knee twisted defiantly away from him, sending him crumpling to the floor again. He clumsily put his hands out and a million more lacerations appeared on them when they came into focus in front of his face. He dragged his palms across the ground toward himself, feeling small chunks of glass grind in and out of his skin as blood got smeared across the dark wood floors.

Jenny had loved those floors too.

Everything about the house reminded him of his aunt and for the first time in almost a year he seriously, honestly yearned for her. Why had he bought this house, forced his way back into a place that only brought him bad feelings and memories? Why had Jenny gotten cancer? Why did anyone get cancer? Jesse shut his eyes and tried to get up again and when he heard glass crunch under his shoes he figured he made it. He staggered aimlessly, not sure if he was headed to the bathroom to throw up or if he was headed to the closet to hang himself.

Bright white light rented his vision and he figured it was the former. Or else he had just failed to find the closet. He went to the sink first. He meant to wash some of the blood off his hands, but he only succeeded in splattering it on the clean white porcelain before he dropped near the toilet. He inched closer and reached his arms out to take a hold of the bowl to steady himself but stopped when he thought about all the blood he would get on it if he did that. So he contented himself by basically smearing his body across the ground in the space between the toilet and the bathtub, one elbow thrown over the tub's edge, and for how conscious he was of the toilet, he didn't mind it at all when blood dribbled into the tub.

Was he upstairs? Or the hallway? Did the hallway even have a bathroom?

He thought he should lift his head to the level of the toilet, at least, but he didn't have the strength to hold it there and he didn't want his face anywhere asses had been. Asses and acid. He felt awful but he didn't think he would puke any time soon, even if he tried.

_You can't even drink right, Pinkman._

Jesse's heart took off and he actually craned his neck to look around, certain that the words had been spoken to him, logic failing him because the voice was so _clear_. He was genuinely surprised when he found that the room was empty.

...

_High afternoon sunlight slants through the hospital windows and onto the the bed where Jesse is doing some languishing by himself, which isn't anything new for him these days. Periodically nurses show up and try to get him to take the pain meds and a few of them even suggest that he's only refusing because he wants to look tough or macho or something and he suggests that they go fuck themselves. It's not normal for him to just curse people out but he can't help it, he's in a tremendously horrible mood which he has no way of relieving himself from, and then there's the physical pain stacked on top of it and he can't do anything about that either, because if he takes the pain meds now, if he remembers how a drug can miraculously make everything better... well. Jesse's just glad that Saul's gone. The silence of the room is actually welcome after time spent in that guy's presence. Or Mr. White either. Jesse thinks he's pretty much set to pull away from that son of a bitch._

_And then like a disease he shows up again._

_Jesse figured that he probably wouldn't even see him again after the first time he came to the hospital and Jesse assured him that his brother in law was inked on his shit list. Separation anxiety had stopped being an issue for him ever since Mr. White had kicked him to the curb right in front of Saul. They no longer needed each other. Hell, they didn't even want each other. Jesse had made some pathetic attempt at reconnection only to be mercilessly shot down over something he didn't even think was a big deal, something, in fact, that he thought would have made his teacher proud. He thought the man would be happy to see that Jesse had actually learned something from him for once. But no. That's not the way it happened at all. _

_"Something's come up, and I think it's a good opportunity..."_

_He doesn't even get a 'Hi'. He knows right away something's up and it stirs his fury, which had settled at the bottom of his stomach, back into motion. He hates being lied to. He hates being used. He hates it more than he ever has or ever will let on, and it's only recently that's he's even realized just how often both of these things happen to him. It could be just the vicious, constant pain in Jesse's head that's making his anger rise and his blood boil, or it could be the sight of that lying, traitorous face, spewing more cheap bullshit. Jesse is seething and he's able to resist Mr. White's words this time, to reject him the way he has been rejected, but the man doesn't leave him alone, he doesn't see that Jesse doesn't want to be anywhere near him at this point in time and he presses and presses until Jesse snaps._

_"You're turning down one and a half _million..._"_

_"I am _not _turning down the money. I'm turning down _you._"_

_Shoving money in his face when half of it is broken and unrecognizable. Jesse's control slips and his voices escalates to a shout, he doesn't care who hears him. Mr. White thinks he's pulling one over on him again, well he isn't, Jesse won't let himself be deceived so easily anymore. Before he knows it the point of his tirade fades and he's spun into something more like rambling, even less an accusation, it's just a showcase of the black, unforgiving pain that's been eating Jesse for months. And some stab at making Mr. White feel the way Jesse does._

_"Everything I ever cared about is gone. Ruined, turned to shit, dead. Ever since I hooked up with the great 'Heisenberg'."_

_Mr. White's presence stops being necessary to fuel the words and they keep going and Jesse finally touches upon the only point that actually matters by now:_

_"_You _don't give a __**shit **__about _me_."_

_Jesse should stop there but he can't, he's free falling now, reminding Mr. White that if he wanted him as a partner so bad then why did he turn him away so carelessly, why did he call his meth garbage? It shouldn't bother Jesse as much as it does but before he can stop himself he starts to cry. He'd wanted to stand up and appear strong but as always he's more hurt than angry and he breaks and now Mr. White knows exactly what he can use against him and get away with it._

_"Your meth is good, Jesse. As good as mine."_

_Easy words to speak when you don't mean them, although Jesse suspects there will still be huge damage to Mr. White's ego, and that's why the man leaves so quickly afterward. Jesse fumbles to hold onto some sense of control or will of his own but there's nothing left, there really isn't. All he can do is cry and wait for the hurting to stop, hope for the hurting to stop. All of this has been, on Mr. White's part, a ploy to get Jesse back underfoot. And Jesse will take the bait, he knows exactly what he's doing and he hates himself but this is all there is for him. Like a chick who's too weak or too scared to leave a guy who beats on her, Jesse is powerless against Mr. White's manipulations. Regardless of the pain that is no longer eased by lies, Jesse can't hurt him. It's just not in him. And he knows what Mr. White wants him to do and he knows that he'll end up doing it; which depresses him, because he wanted to shed that life of being somebody's tool, but after all the loss and trauma, being manipulated is almost a comfort, like someone else is walking for him and breathing for him. Although Mr. White claims he didn't make the offer to re-establish their partnership to stop Jesse from ruining the brother-in-law Jesse will drop the charges anyway, he knows Mr. White wants to keep relations with the family clean, so he'll let that asshole off the hook, he'll take another beating for free. And the other thing Mr. White wants, well, he'll get that too, because he can exploit weaknesses, and Jesse is as weak as they come. _

_The crying goes on for longer than Jesse thought it would but when the tears finally stop he relinquishes the last of his will and picks up his phone, handing over everything Mr. White doesn't deserve and barely had to do anything to obtain. He'd finally let loose on that old prick and told him off the way he should have a long time ago, but still his resolve to be separate from him for the rest of his life is broken with just that little admission. Can he even call it that? No. It was a lie the same way everything else Mr. White said was. Saying that he wanted Jesse as a partner was a lie, saying that he didn't make the offer to save Hank's ass was a lie, and saying that he thought Jesse's meth was as good as his was such bullshit that he's surprised Mr. White didn't puke after he had forced the words out of his mouth. He knows he's been played, and he walked right into it. He _knows_these things but still he folds and comes back for one more. He hangs up the phone and when he closes his eye he never wants it to open again. No matter how badly he's treated or how much he loses in the end he'll do what Mr. White wants to do, because what else is there? Nothing. No one._

_It's impossible to sleep when his head is in the state it's in, so all Jesse can do is sink into the pillow and shut himself off, and it's not that hard when the blank, sterile room he's in is empty and nobody is coming to see him. He wants to disconnect himself completely but he'll never entirely lose his ability to feel, no matter how hard he tries._

_'I don't want a monkey. I want you.'_

_Did he intentionally ignore the purpose of the rat threat? Did Jesse even really mean it in the first place? Did Mr. White even believe him? Maybe, maybe not. Jesse has gotten better at certain things but reading people isn't one of them, and as obvious as Mr. White's lies are his intentions are sometimes difficult to see. Jesse has never understood the guy. Maybe that's why it's so easy to bend to his whims._

_Or maybe Jesse is just a loser. In any case he certainly doesn't feel better._

_..._

Wetness on his face should have roused Jesse but it didn't. Vomit ran down his chin as he slipped away quietly, almost into sleep. Despite being without his sweater he wasn't even a little cold. In fact, his entire body was warm. Uncomfortably so. He kneaded his fingers together, felt the blood which had dried into stickiness squishing between them. That was all he felt, though. Warmth and sticky blood. And that was good, that was exactly what he wanted. No more whining about Jane or Jenny or his parents or Mr. White. At that moment their names were insignificant, and the thought of them inspired nothing in him. His heart pounded in his chest as it always did, his lungs worked at a regular pace, and nothing could hurt him.

The snow must have picked up or else he just finally started to notice it, as it seemed the cold winds outside had invaded the room. Goose bumps traveled up his arms but his horrifically abused body deflected the chill that should have gone along with it. He could hear the wind, though. Loud. Loud and annoying. Making his house moan eerily. It was an old house and it creaked when blasted with the winds, as if it were pissed off that anything would try to move it from the place in which it had always stood. The house, Jesse thought dizzily, was the only thing that didn't change. It looked different on the inside ever since his parents stupidly went around and 'renovated' everything but it was still the same place, the only symbol of longevity in Jesse's life. Everything else had collapsed around him. The house just kept on standing.

When it seemed he had spent his entire existence on the floor of the bathroom between the tub and the crapper he wondered what time it was. He also made a mental note to always buy that kind of beer from now on. It had been awhile since he'd had a good strong one like that, one that messed him up within the first thirty minutes. Or maybe it had just been so long since he got drunk that an ordinary beer was hitting him like a train. Actually, the last time he had gotten truly plastered was when he took Pete and Combo to the All Fours Cabaret. What a night that had been. With nearly seven grand of someone else's money in his pocket he thought he'd treat himself to some fun after an intensely shitty past couple of days. He hadn't meant to spend all the cash, though. He just thought he'd spend a little and then really haggle his guy down on the price of the RV. So to the strip club he went, for what turned out to be the last good time he had since Mr. White spotted him escaping from the window of some floozy's house.

Until Jane. It wasn't like his life to suddenly feel awesome, so looking back on it he should have been ready for something to screw up, but he just didn't want to believe that anything would. And definitely not in the way it did.

Jesse cringed. Throwing up had cleared his head way, way too much. So much that he actually realized he had thrown up. He shouldn't have been aware of that. He shouldn't have thought about Jane, or anybody else. Shouldn't have thought about how she had been taken from him so quickly that he hadn't even gotten a chance to spend a birthday with her, let alone a Christmas. He could feel his heart starting to twist again so he wrenched away from the ground and when he got an eyeful of himself in the mirror on his way out he felt his skin crawl. Yellow puke on his chin and blood dried to nothing on the side of his head, and his nose, sloping and sticking out in a way that added a babyish shape to his face that he could have done without. He thought of his tattered lips and fractured bones and his skin, stretched tight and turned purple over the breaks and swelling grotesquely, and how it had seemed that half-mutated look suited him so much better. And just when he thought he couldn't hate himself any more.

He stumbled out the door and toppled through the house, messily smudging the vomit stuck to his lips onto his sleeve, mostly onto his arm, staggering around until he started to recognize parts of the building, pass those little reminders that meant he was getting closer to the living room, closer to tonight's cure-all. It was unfortunate that it took dozens of bottles of booze to accomplish what just one needle would have done for him.

A man who could win an award for his timing; just as that terrible thought about the needles came to Jesse he stopped dead, finally feeling the cold prickle his skin.

"Jesse...?"

...

-_which is what I'm soaking the sponges in so yes good very good and what do we use to conduct this beautiful current hm copper it's copper_

_oh you were thinking well now that we've identified the problem you and thinking that's the problem_

_how many bullets does that gun even take how can you suggest we kill a man when you can't even open the gun it's not that easy is it_

_i need him i need him very very badly he's my partner if he doesn't go i don't go_

_is this like a genetic thing with you is it congenital did your mother drop you on your head when you were a baby yes i see your point your imbecility being what it is I should have known to say jesse don't leave the keys in the ignition the entire two days_

_partners in what what exactly do you do here i've been meaning to ask because i'm the producer right i cook but from what i can tell you are just a drug addict you are a pathetic junkie too stupid to understand and follow simple rudimentary instructions _

_you junkie imbecile what are you doing calling this number_

_i will break this i will break it damn druggie idiot is this what you've been doing the whole time i've been trying to reach you_

_damn junkie this is going down the toilet watch it go it's worth nothing when you smoke it all get off the toilet get off the toilet_

_i guess you'll just have to depend on the kindness of strangers to get high that and your little junkie girlfriend _

_in world war two the germans had an artillery piece the biggest in the world called the gustaf gun and it weighed a thousand tons and the gustaf was capable of firing a seven tonne shell and hitting a target accurately twenty three miles away i mean you could drop bombs on it every day for a month without ever disabling it but drop a commando one man with just a bag of this and he could melt through four inches of solid steel and destroy that gun forever_

_nice job wearing the pants you're not seeing straight jesse you are making a mistake_

_calm down take a deep breath do it listen to me are you listening calm down everything is going to be okay i promise_

-jesse jesse jesse wake up

_There is pain in his arm and in his entire body. He hears his name and can't respond to it. He can't move anything. He doesn't even want to._

jesse look at me son

_He groans. He's been hearing this voice for what seems like forever. He's lost everything. His friends are dead. His money is dead. Mr. White has given up on him, hates him. Right now he's cozy at home with his family and his cash. He has everything. Jesse has nothing. There is artificial happiness in his veins and even it can't make anything better. All it does is immobilize him so that when he hears Mr. White's voice he can't tell if it's still inside his head or out._

_"Stuff's not free. Oh god." He still thinks he hears Mr. White, but now there are hands on him, and Mr. White doesn't touch him unless it's to hit him. He thinks it's one of these freaks trying to rob him, and he tries to get away, but remembers he has nothing for them to take._

jesse it's me_ "It's Walt." This he finally hears as something not in his head. The hands are Mr. White's. Why is he here? Jesse just hopes he's not here to yell. He understands that he's hated. All he wants is to be left alone to dwell on that._

_"Oh. Yeah." Still barely registering. Wondering why he's here, afraid to know why he's here, embarrassed to know that he's here. Jesse drowns himself in shame. Now Mr. White gets to see him in this place, to see him with nothing. To see that he is nothing. _

_"Jesse, we're going to get out of here. Stand up. Let's go."_

_He doesn't know where Mr. White wants to take him but he wants to go, except his guilt holds him back. He's lifted, and he resists. "No, no, no, no, no. I'm good, I'm good, I'm good. I'm good right here." Keeping up appearances. Jesse is supposed to be able to just keep rolling. He bounces back. He's fine. For Mr. White's sake, he'll pretend he's fine. _

_Hands on his face. The skin is dry and lined with deep crevices, but it's warm and it's the first thing that makes him feel like he's alive instead of dead. Some of the pain eases at the touch but he holds onto the rest of it because just the fact that Mr. White is here is confusing the shit out of him and hurting him too. Everything is fucking backwards. He has tried to be good and it got him nothing. Now that he's worthless here's the only person whose approval was actually worth something to him coming from the shadows and finding him in this ugly place he had meant for himself to rot in. Mr. White should be gone. Jesse has betrayed him._

_"You are not good here Jesse. You are not good at all." Jesse forces his eyes open and confirms that it isn't a trick. He sees Mr. White and he doesn't look quite out of place enough with this crackhouse backdrop. "Come on, you're going to stand up, and we're gonna go." He can't stand. He can't move. He's stuck. "Put your arms around me. That's right. We're going to take you somewhere nice and safe." Is there anywhere nice he can go? Or will all the doors shut in his face? He's lifted again but this time he doesn't bother fighting it. His arms find their way around Mr. White, and it's weird, but it feels okay, it feels nice and safe like Mr. White wanted. _

_Jesse links his hands behind the man's back and comes undone. The drugs in his system have not helped. Thinking of the money has not helped. All the hurting done by himself has not helped. There was nobody, and now there is somebody. Suddenly, crazily, Mr. White has come back. He's not home with his family. He's here in a drug den, coming to Jesse's rescue, as the only person left on the planet who gives a fuck. Jesse doesn't deserve a person who gives a fuck. He already accepted the fact that he lost both of his partners. He's only managed to ruin everything and hurt everyone. He should be alone now until he dies. But he's not._

_So he cries. His arms around Mr. White, he can't help himself and he comes apart the way everything else has. He holds tightly in case Mr. White tries to leave him, and he gives up and he cries like a child. He expects any second that he'll be shoved away, cast off again, and while he knows he deserves that, he still doesn't want it to happen. When he feels Mr. White's arms move, he thinks that he's going to push him away, he's going to leave, he's going to disappear forever. _

_But he doesn't. The arms enfold him. Mr. White's hands are on his back and in his hair, it's the only time they've ever been this close without attacking each other, so Jesse drops his guard completely and buries himself in the front of Mr. White's shirt, wishing he could disappear into it and not have to come back out. There's more warmth in this chest than Jesse knows what to do with and he's so goddamn mad at himself for letting himself have this comfort. Just to make it even, Jesse thinks, Mr. White should know the truth._

_So Jesse tells him. He deserves to know. "I killed her," he says through his tears. "I killed her, it was me. I got her back on the meth." _

_Now Mr. White does push him back but it isn't with anger, it's only to look at him, and mercifully he doesn't let go altogether. "Jesse, look at me. You didn't kill anybody." _

_No, Jesse never pulled the trigger on anybody or stabbed anybody or strangled anybody. But he has killed. He's killed with his laziness and his lack of skills, his lack of interest in getting a job that doesn't involve drug dealing. He's killed with his weakness and his addiction and his pointless rebellion against parents who no longer even care. He's killed because even if he never laid a finger on anybody he's been pushing the buttons that set off the bombs. He's killed just with the fact that if he had never existed certain people would still be alive right now._

_But he doesn't argue these points. His mind doesn't work that way. There's too much strangeness in having Mr. White hold him and be nice to him and act like Jesse isn't a failure, like he's not a monster, for Jesse to pull something that might make sense out of the situation. "I loved her," he whispers, just like it'll make up for the fact that she's dead because of him. There's nothing he can do to make up for that. He deserves to be dead, too. "I loved her more than anything."_

_And it's true. He doesn't think he even got the chance to tell her that and he wonders muzzily if anything would be different if he had. Mr. White pulls Jesse close again and Jesse can hear himself saying 'no' over and over, and he wonders what exactly he is protesting. The loss of her, of himself, the compassion he doesn't deserve but for some reason is getting. He wraps his hand up in the fabric of the man's shirt and he's not sure when he ever let go of it._

_Later he's fairly certain the entire thing had been a hallucination, especially when he comes around in the backseat of an unfamiliar car and paws at the outline of a bald head, only to have his heart nearly blow up in unwelcome surprise when a stranger's face stares back at him. But no, this stoic visage isn't entirely new to him. It's the same guy who took his drugs and his money. Paid to clean up Jesse's room and now paid to take him to rehab. If Jesse could mistake him for Mr. White on a comedown he could easily do it while he was still soaring. Of course this isn't something he's happy about, because now that doubt has made its way into his mind he feels like he cheated himself out of something. And he can't even ask Mr. White about it because if it had happened the guy wouldn't want to talk about it and if it hadn't happened he'd think Jesse was a loser for believing for one second that it had._

_So he left himself in an uncertain space between knowing and hoping, never entirely sure where Mr. White had been, and if he truly cared about him at all._

...

There were three things that used to undo Jesse's whole sense of reality. Sex, heroin, and time in the desert. All of these temporarily placed him in a void where it seemed any second the very ground he stood on could be pulled out from under him. For awhile he would forget who he was and nothing seemed real outside of the moment, like no other world existed beyond the sands or the needles or heat of the body. Since he'd given up the last two and the first one now only served to fill him with a sour longing he figured his feeble understanding of what was possible and what wasn't would be left alone.

And then he emerged from his hallway to see Walt in his living room.

With the scattered glass between them and the silence spinning out and the only half-clotted blood splashed along Jesse's hands it felt more like a standoff than anything else.

"Oh my God. What happened?"

Not surprisingly Walter was able to speak first. Jesse could have been a wit and said something like 'a tornado came through' but instead he was quiet as Walt took a cautious step towards him, carefully weaving those big dorky shoes through the shattered evidence of Jesse's little party. Looking at them Jesse was reminded of the way the footwear had earned Walt the nickname of "Mr. Wallabee" to certain high-schoolers. He wondered if any kids still called him that.

"What did you do to yourself?"

And Jesse couldn't even answer that because he wasn't sure what he did to himself and what just happened as he went along. He could still feel the blood and he could still smell the vomit, but all he could see was Walt. "What are you doing here?" he asked, completely ignoring the obvious shock and worry on the deep lines of Walt's face, and the way his eyes widened behind glasses. "Is that a present?"

The lines in Walt's forehead knotted together, then smoothed when he glanced at the beige box under his arm. He waved a hand in a gesture to 'never mind', then set the box down on the floor. There was curvy, ornate writing on the side of it but Jesse couldn't read it from where he was. His vision still wasn't all that great. It would stay focused for longer amounts of time but then slide out of control again. During one of these slides he felt himself get taken by the shoulders and steered around.

"Come on. To the bathroom."

"I just came from there," he protested, twisting around, but Walt pushed against him with his entire body and kept him moving. He came through the bathroom door again and he heard Walt's sharp intake of breath when he saw the blood that had been splattered all over everything. Jesse didn't remember bleeding that much. The sight of it prompted Walt to take one of Jesse's hands to get a better look at the injuries. Jesse decided to finally examine it as well and he had to admit that he understood the alarm that lit up on Walt's face. The flesh of his palm was split apart so deep and so wide it was a wonder Jesse hadn't torn a hole right through it.

Walt guided him over to the sink and gently pulled his hands under the faucet and ran the warm water over them. The blood turned pink and ran off his skin, splashing into the porcelain bowl and fleeing down the drain. "I think you should go to the hospital," Walt said, almost reproachfully.

Stitches couldn't hurt but the hospital was the last place Jesse wanted to be. "No. Screw that." And he expected the man to argue with him but instead he only shook his head and turned off the faucet.

"Do you have any gauze?" Still holding his hand.

"Yeah yeah, here I'll get it..." Jesse mumbled, prying his fingers loose and nearly falling over instead of kneeling down to go through the cabinet under the sink. Briefly he rested his forehead against the wood and shut his eyes; the drop in altitude slapped him with vertigo and his head was still fuzzy despite how most of his buzz died after he had thrown up. He yanked the cabinet door open and shot his hand into the shelves before Walt had a chance to and seized upon several different boxes, pulling them all out at once and spilling out several dozen other things that had built up in that small space. He started to tear into one of the boxes at random until Walt dropped to his knee next to him, shuffling through the mess with one hand and pulling free a box of bandages with no apparent effort. Jesse fell back then; Walt was here now, and it would make more sense to just let him do everything. Except that wasn't what Jesse wanted, not what he was missing when he decided to get ridiculously hammered.

For the moment, though, he didn't trust himself to be able to dress a wound and Walt was more than willing to do it. He held out his hands like a beggar at Walt's request, steadily observing the man's face while he carefully wrapped the gauze around his palms, quietly lamenting that he couldn't cover the smaller cuts that crisscrossed along Jesse's fingers. After he was done Jesse hoped for the little indignities to be over but when he stood Walt was already wetting a cloth in the sink. Jesse tried to simply move around him with a suggestion to go to the living room but Walt wasn't having it. He budged in his way and placed a hand on one side of Jesse's face and used the other to wipe at his lips, dabbing away the last traces of Jesse's good time.

If he could call it that.

When they had finally gotten out of the bathroom - Jesse had spent an agonizingly long time in there already - Jesse's head had cleared unfairly, enough for him to feel ashamed that Walt got to see him in yet another pathetic state of weakness. Why didn't he come before Jesse had downed however many bottles of booze? Why didn't he call and tip Jesse off that maybe everything didn't suck quite as much as he thought it did? Well, he probably hadn't planned on visiting at all. Jesse obviously hadn't been expecting him. The guy had a family, after all, and even though he and his lady were divorced they'd still spend time together for the sake of their kid, and Jesse had no reason to think he'd cut family-time short just to keep some junkie company.

The futon seemed more appealing by the second but Jesse stopped when he noticed Walt veering off in the direction of the kitchen. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to get a broom," Walt answered breezily, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Jesse growled. "Dude, no," he snapped, forcefully enough that Walt actually listened to him. Listened to him and stopped. "You are _not _going to sweep my fucking floors now."

"There's glass all over the place, Jesse-"

"Yeah and _I'll _clean it up, okay? Come on, enough of this shit. You didn't come over here to take care of me. Go sit your ass down and have a beer or something."

Walt hesitated, sparing the glass covered floor one more concerned look before he came back over. He lowered himself onto the futon but didn't take Jesse up on the offer of the beer- maybe because what was left of it was lying in the middle of broken bottle shards and blood.

A change in subject was definitely in order. "So what's in the box?" Jesse asked, more glass grinding under his shoes as he went to retrieve the package.

"Uhh-"

Jesse had already picked it up but the tiny squiggly writing on the side of it looked blurry to him even up close. He carried it back over to the futon and plopped down next to Walt, popping the top open and when he pulled the bottle out he could have laughed and screamed and cried all at once.

He only went with the laughing, though, snorting in genuine amusement when he saw what Walt had brought him. The writing on the label was bigger and across it he could read: '_Old Heaven Bourbon', _also in fancy-ass maroon script.

"Um, yeah," Walt said sheepishly. "I don't think you should have any of that. I didn't know you'd be drunk out of your mind when I brought it."

"Don't they say it's the thought that counts or whatever?" Jesse slurred, hooking one of his feet under the edge of his coffee table and dragging it closer to the futon again, then popping the lid off the bourbon on its edge.

"Whoa, hey, I said-"

"What? You're not gonna let me have any?"

"I don't think it's a good idea."

Jesse looked at the bottle in his grasp. "But I already opened it."

Walt held out a hand. Jesse rolled his eyes and surrendered the bourbon, and his eyebrows shot up when Walt took a huge quaff of it. He grimaced and wiped his lips and then plunked the bottle down on the table, exhaling a long breath with what seemed like great difficulty. He choked a little on the liquor and his eyes went watery. Jesse scooted closer to him.

"Did you have a bad day or something?"

"Not until I came here."

"Oh, well, _so_ sorryfor ruining your night with my shit. I didn't ask you to come over."

Walt looked over quickly. "I don't mean..." He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses up a little on his head. "Jesse... Look at you."

"Believe me, I saw it."

"No, I mean..." Walt paused, and Jesse thought that the man didn't really know _what _he meant. "It's that... _God, _you wouldn't be like this right now if I had never-"

"Not like what?" Jesse interrupted, suddenly defensive.

At the confrontational tone Walt's temper, too, spiked. "You know exactly what," he said accusingly. "You're stumbling around here, drunk off your ass with broken glass stuck in your hands, and you act like you don't know what I'm talking about."

Jesse only fumed silently. He couldn't argue with that.

"Look, maybe I should just go-" And then the man started to get up without waiting for an answer and Jesse's anger died right there and he nearly panicked at the idea that Walt would actually _leave_. Just take off and leave Jesse by himself again, leave him _to_ himself again. So he caught Walt's belt with his fingers and pulled him back down on the futon and the moment he turned his head his way Jesse kissed him. He put his hands on Walt's shoulders and he could feel the man go rigid but he didn't break away and Jesse squeezed his eyes shut, his bones feeling like they had turned to ice. At last he pulled away - the whole thing had only lasted five or ten seconds - and a painfully awkward silence passed.

"It's not like you could drive in that," Jesse murmured, finally referencing the snow which had before been so irrelevant to him. And anyway, since Walt had already left his family, his night was basically open. Only nominally a married man, his condo was all that would be waiting for him. He had about as much to return to as Jesse had to leave. "Come on, you're not going anywhere." He leaned in to kiss him again but that time Walt held him back.

"Jesse, you're drunk," he objected, staring at him in a way that made it clear he was shocked, but also made Jesse think he wasn't all that horrified. Not all that horrified at all.

"Yeah? Says who?" Jesse leaned in again, harder, but stopped just short of it when their lips brushed together and Walt made no inclination to move. "Like you were saying, man, you _owe _me. So just... shut up." Their mouths met again and Walt's tasted awfully of strong liquor and Jesse supposed that his wasn't much better but it didn't matter, not in the least, because that time neither of them pulled away and Walt's hands moved to Jesse's hips and held them almost possessively.

_That's what I thought. No one's putting the screws on you, old man._

While their lips mashed and their teeth clacked together and Jesse tasted the alcohol and felt the fuzz of Walt's chin, Jesse told himself that he wasn't just doing this for the comfort, even as he placed his hand on the back of the man's neck while Walt's was sliding up under his shirt. He assured himself that he didn't need to do something like this just to prove that he wasn't alone, and he became convinced that instead the whole thing was about the thrill of the _wrongness_, and the pursuit of something new. Something dangerous. Just one more destructive thing to end a night filled with them.

Formerly Jesse had been the aggressor but now Walt pushed him onto his back and came down on top of him, kissing the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, then his neck, running his hands along his chest. Jesse reached out and flicked open the first button on Walt's shirt but was immediately bored by the number of buttons and decided to simply grab the front of the shirt and tear it open. Then he could see a scar, long and thin, across Walt's ribs, the visible mark cancer had left on the man, and Jesse imagined the black death eating away at his lungs; with Jenny, the knowing had been the worst of it, but with Walt, it was the lack of certainty as to if or when that disease would ever come back for him that was driving Jesse insane.

Walt's hands, working too fast for their own good, fumbled around Jesse's belt until he sighed with impatience and undid the damn thing himself. Walt didn't miss a beat, as if the belt had come undone on its own or something, and he slid his thumbs into the waistband of Jesse's jeans and started pulling them away from his body, breathing harshly, and Jesse felt like telling him to shut up again. Walt, as if overwhelmed, let go of the jeans when they were only part-way down and inclined his head closer to Jesse's ear, his lips moving against it ticklishly as he spoke.

"Do you want to-"

"I don't have a bed."

"Umm... I was going to ask if you wanted me to get something... for..."

And when Jesse realized what he was driving at his stomach gave a flip of nervousness but he ignored it. "Yeah, sure, whatever."

Walt heaved himself off the futon and when the weight of his body had gone Jesse felt like maybe putting a stop to the whole thing. He still had a chance to, while Walt was off looking for petroleum jelly or whatever. He pleaded with himself that it was only because he was drunk that he had gotten this far at all but even he knew that he definitely was not still stoned enough to just want to get with an old guy for no reason. So he sat up and swiped the bottle of bourbon off the table and took as big of a drink as he could off of it, shuddering as it scorched his mouth and his throat, and he felt only a little more ready to keep going after it had worked its way down into his stomach, where it pooled like lava and sent sticky sweat pouring from his temples.

And Walt came back quicker, so much quicker, than Jesse really would have liked, and he forgot all about wasting time on words and just like that he was on Jesse again, and Jesse relaxed against him and let himself get swept up and lost in the idea that someone, _anyone _could still want him. Walt grabbed his head when he kissed him again, now rough and aroused and almost feverish, his fingers threading through short blondish hair and over old blood that stuck to it without noticing or caring. Then his hands were at Jesse's waist, down to his thighs, yanking the jeans away completely. Jesse shivered when his bare legs touched the chilled fabric of the futon but he didn't flinch when Walt's fingers travelled up his exposed flesh and then his underwear was gone, too, and that made him bristle a little bit, perhaps only with the cold. He bit his lip and turned his head away when Walt started undoing his own pants, partly because he didn't know if he could go through with it if he saw the thing and partly because he just didn't want to look at it. He could hear Walt unscrewing the lid to something that was probably Vaseline and then the man was between his legs, on top of him, and he smothered him with another harsh kiss before he pushed in and that was good for when Jesse screamed against his lips because holy sweet jesus fucking christ it was _in. _

"Jesse-"

"Shut up," he gasped, and he meant it. He wouldn't be able to stand for Walt to speak just yet and certainly not for him to say Jesse's name and remind him of who he was. He needed to forget that person and just concentrate on not screaming until his lungs ruptured. So he put the pain at the back of his mind and focused on the way his loneliness had disappeared entirely upon Walt's entry, as if it had never even been there. He dug his nails into Walt's shoulders and hands squeezed his hips and then the man was moving over him, in him, slowly at first, then with a little more confidence when it became apparent that Jesse wasn't going to break in half. He still felt like he might, though, clamping his jaw shut every time Walt pushed in and then out of him and gradually that started to get faster, making it difficult to keep up, difficult to keep quiet. He wrapped his arms around Walt's neck and moaned softly when an over-sensitive spot inside of him was brushed, lips touching the space between his cheek and his ear at the same time. He kept his eyes open just to keep from confusing himself with any fantasy that might appear behind closed eyelids and it burned, oh god it burned, but for how much it hurt, the pain of it was nothing compared to what Jesse had been feeling before.

_"Jesse."_

He didn't tell Walt to be quiet that time because by then he wanted to hear it, needed to hear it, the lust and the crushing satisfaction. He rolled his hips and arched his back and felt Walt go deeper in and there was that feeling of lost reality. He welcomed it with nostalgia and relief. He let out a breath he hadn't even known he had been holding and kissed lips whenever they got close enough, the room around him sliding away like water colors and then solidifying again as his body gradually adjusted to the abrupt invasion, enough for him to finally feel something more consistent than occasional throbs of pleasure and pain. _"Oh God, Jesse."_ He was amazed Walt could form coherent words when all he could do was make tiny, almost virginal sounds and tilt his head back, sighing when lips and teeth and tongue seized his throat. With an effort he was able to keep his eyes turned up at Walt, who was panting, sweating and grimacing above him, staring down at him, nothing quite readable on his face except for pleasure. And he didn't know how long they kept on that way, taking short breaths and letting their fingernails pierce the other's skin, except that most of the pain had dwindled by the time Walt had given his last thrust and turned to stone in Jesse's bandaged hands as the climax overtook him and the whole thing ended with a grunt.

Only then did Jesse allow his eyes to fall shut. Walt pulled out of him and stopped bothering to hold himself up and collapsed on top of Jesse, unmindful of just how damn heavy he was. Jesse, upon Walt's withdrawal, felt physically emptier in a way that disturbed and frightened him, and the muscles in his legs gave up and turned into trembling puddles of skin. He could feel Walt's heartbeat, fast and erratic and mirroring Jesse's own, thumping against his chest, a definite reminder that Walt's lungs currently weren't being consumed, and that he was still alive.

"Jesse?"

"Mm."

"Merry Christmas."

"Shut the fuck up, Mr. White."

He never had to tell Walt to shut up so many times in one night and the third time only served to make the man smile at him. Jesse thought about telling him to get off of him already and maybe let him put his pants back on, but he figured Walt would come to this action on his own; until the breathing on his neck evened out and something that sounded suspiciously like snoring started to rumble from Walt's throat.

_For fuck's sake._

Although, he wasn't nearly as pissed as he should have been. Because this was better. He could feel that hot, sticky wetness starting to run down his leg and _that _didn't feel good at all, but it was still better. Immeasurably so. Unlike the other significant moments of closeness with Walt, this one left no room for doubt on whether it had actually occurred... But as before Jesse couldn't be sure about what it even meant. Did something change or improve or did it keep going as it always had? He didn't know which scenario he would prefer.

Once more Jesse was left in that unhappy place between knowing and hoping, only this time there was still a pair of arms around him, and he couldn't really tell if that was a good thing or not anymore.


	2. Paroxysm

**Paroxysm**

A sweet, undisturbed silence greeted the sunrise of the morning after Christmas, nothing of the shrieking winds that had been known on the previous night were seen or heard anywhere, and the only proof that such a thing had ever even took place lie in the cover of white powder upon the ground, packed tightly enough that even high dawning sunlight didn't effortlessly do away with it. Although it stood valiantly now, a few ticks higher in the degrees throughout the day would soon see it cowering like the rest of its kind.

Besides the snow, yards and roads were dotted with natural debris, branches that had been blown down and dry weeds that had tumbled from however far away; ploughs and sweepers were making a more committed effort to clear the streets and people were emerging from hiding to open stores for the after-Christmas sales and returns, just as others were rising enthusiastically to partake in this. As the sun climbed in the sky it was as if everybody had already forgotten the storm of the night before.

Unexpectedly there was no alarm bleeping to spoil Walter's sleep, an occurrence so rare in his daily routine that it briefly interrupted his dreaming with a thought from reality. And with one thought of the real world outside dreams comes others, making Walt aware of another's breathing, which was as unusual as the lack of an alarm clock, since he always went to bed alone now. He lay prone with his eyes closed and still half-asleep, listening to it, feeling it against his chest, and it gradually lulled him back to his abstract thoughts and vivid memories balled into one.

...

_It turns out to be one of those fascinating - if also confusing and bothersome - instances of dreaming within a dream, because the first thing Walt believes to be happening is that he's in a hospital. Terrible places, hospitals, and Walt is all too familiar with them. He's walking through the hallway, which is strangely devoid of activity. He passes one door, peers into it, and there's Skyler and Holly. And Ted. And Ted and Ted and Ted, not Walt, because Walt is too busy selling drugs to be there. Even though he's aware of the enormous help Ted has been in getting Skyler to the delivery room in Walt's place, he still wouldn't mind bouncing the man's head off the nice clean linoleum. But he keeps walking instead, comes to another door, looks in. He sees Hank shot to pieces on one of the beds, staring angrily at the ceiling. Walt wants to go in and apologize to him but his brother-in-law looks to be in a mood where any words of condolence might send him into a flaming anger, so Walt just keeps walking. At another door he can hear surgery going on within the room. He can't see in but he knows that he's the one on the operating table. They're hacking him open and taking him apart. He doesn't want to relive that again either, so he keeps on. The last door he comes to is the one he enters. He knew he would, and he knows who will be in here. _

_There isn't a spontaneous "Yo" to greet him. Jesse is unconscious. This hospital door led further back in time than the others: Jesse's anesthetized because his ribs are broken. If he was awake he wouldn't be yelling at Walt the way he'll do the next time Walt finds him hospitalized, because this is a time when Jesse's tolerance for having to literally roll with the punches is much higher. His tolerance for Walt is much higher. Walt reaches forward slowly, like he expects to be burned or severed the moment he touches Jesse, and he ends up leaving his hand on the sheet just next to Jesse's arm. _

_"I won't let this happen again," he hears himself promising._

_But of course it does happen again._

_And again._

_Then Walt wakes up and is at first completely perplexed because he's in the lab. Why would he be asleep in the lab? There's no sense in it and he thinks he might still be dreaming until he starts to sit up and realizes the material covering him isn't a blanket. It's Jesse's coat, placed carefully and almost tenderly over him. Walt lifts his arms out from under it and lets one of his hands fall onto it, touching the clothing and then squeezing it in a fist. Everything he had been up to comes back to him: he was in obsessive pursuit to cleanse the lab of a contamination, and he hadn't slept at all the night before, which explains his crash and his near-delirium just before dropping in one of the lab's chairs. He was stressed out and had been feeling unbearably anxious since discovering that Jesse had-_

_But he cuts that thought off. It doesn't even feel safe to think it while still inside the laundry. He sits up all the way and holds the coat to his chest for a moment, feeling an inexplicable pang in his chest that could only be described as heartache. Once it passes he gets up and puts his shoes back on, keeping the coat in one arm. Jesse's still in the lab when Walt goes out there. He knew he would be. Not because waiting for the return of his jacket is important enough for him to hang around, but because it's just not in his nature to leave Walt alone while he's asleep, open and defenseless in a place Jesse doesn't trust. A place he doesn't even like. Once the shiny novelty of the lab wore off for Jesse the whole thing became something of a grind. Walt would be lying (but hell, when _doesn't_ he lie?) if he said he didn't feel the same sometimes, but he also has the security of his family in mind to ground him. As far as Jesse's concerned, he can do all the free falling he wants because nothing can happen to him, and if something does, what does anyone care? _

_"Hey, is it better?" is what Jesse asks him when Walt returns to the land of the living. He climbs down off the railing, pretending that he wasn't just playing on it. Walt considerately pretends that he didn't already see him doing it, although he is tempted to mention the possibility of falling and getting injured, but it's not like Jesse doesn't already know that._

_Though there's no specification on what 'it' is, Walt's "Yes" is at least half true. He holds out Jesse's coat for him as he saunters over, and he's sort of sad to see it go when Jesse reaches for it and pulls the clothing over himself, swallowed up by the folds._

_"That's good," he says. "I got that asshole fly, by the way," he adds proudly. Walt can only look at him in wonderment for a minute. When Walt is doing something that Jesse makes no secret of viewing as crazy, he still plays along, buys into it. He brings Walt fly traps, makes him coffee, gives him a chair and sets him up on the couch when he finally submits to his exhaustion. He listens to Walt's strung-out nonsense and worries over his health and 'clears the contaminant' for him. Leaves him his coat as he sleeps. At this moment Jesse seems such an unlikely entity, and though the dejection returns, Walt is able to smile a little as he commends him._

_"Nice work."_

_"Yeah, I thought so. C'mon, let's hit it."_

_Outside, Walt's anxiety comes back full force and escalates to being unendurable. The things Jesse has done today that should have just seemed puerile to him instead filled him with a queer despondency. He had even listened to what at first seemed like a pointless story about a possum, half-hearted in his attempt to discourage it, because now any minute that useless chatter might just stop for good. Like the time he had fixed a leaking faucet in his house and at once found himself unable to sleep when the dripping was silenced, Walt would miss Jesse's blather if he was told he could never hear it again._

When did they change it to 'opossum'?

_Walt looks out from his car window at Jesse and tries to imagine an existence in which he's permanently absent. It's not a good thought and Walt doesn't want to see it come to fruition, but his control in this new situation of theirs is limited so the most he can realistically do is caution Jesse against crossing Gus and have faith that he'll understand that the danger just isn't worth it, and maybe, if Walt's advice is delivered correctly, Jesse might also realize that someone does still care about him. Walt could never be direct enough to say such a thing to Jesse's face, as he's passed up every opportunity to thus far. Even today as he finally told Jesse about his almost phantasmagoric encounter with Donald Margolis, he neglected to mention the "nephew" he had discussed that night when the fateful advice to never give up on family had been spoken; instead he only managed what he intended as an expressive look. Jesse met that gaze and might have understood part of what it was meant to communicate - _You Jesse I'm talking about you and I never gave up on you but you don't know about what I did and you never should -_ then Walt turned away before he could say anything in earnest, leaving Jesse proverbially hanging. _

_Now he calls Jesse over, observing the deep cuts marring his face again before he speaks. A reminder of a backfire for Walt; but for Jesse they're like the marks of a betrayal, and it seems as though things can't possibly be right between them again until they fade from his skin completely._

_"I couldn't chance saying it inside, for all I know the lab's wired for sound. But that half a pound we were off by..."_

_As soon as he says it, Jesse sets his expression and Walt knows this discussion is about to go nowhere fast. The minute he brings the meth up it's like Jesse has slammed a door in his face._

_"I'm not accusing you..." _But I know you took it. Why would you do that? Why are you always trying to hurt yourself?

_"I didn't take shit."_

_This would be optimal and Walt wants to believe it. Jesse doesn't steal. Jesse doesn't lie. But neither do Walt's calculations. Jesse's theft is so obvious and so brutally unlike him that now Walt thinks he wanted to be caught - but not by Gus. He's gotten this vibration from Jesse ever since he complained of their cut in the three-month contract: that Jesse wants to provoke some of Walt's old temperament, not understanding that the rules change once you're under somebody else. So if this whole thing was done just to bait Walt and force him to pay attention to Jesse again, then Jesse's behavior now can only be because he's not getting the reaction he wanted._

_"I won't be able to protect you," Walt warns him, and in his head he hears Jesse's reply right down to the letter the instant before he says it._

_"Who's asking you to?"_

_He leaves without another word because none are left that are worth speaking. It's not what Walt wants either. His pragmatism tells him he's done all he can and the rest is up to Jesse, but as he drives he thinks of the jacket being spread across him as he slept. Thinking of that, Walt is reminded of how his mother, for a period of time after his father died, would spend evenings holding the deceased man's robe, sometimes stroking it, other times just leaving it in her lap while she sewed or watched the late news._

I won't be able to protect you...

_It's not a wonder this didn't come as some big surprise to Jesse. He hadn't been able to protect Jesse from himself without destroying a part of him and now he's just going to meekly concede to Gus doing what he will if he finds out about the missing product. Concede to a reality where a jacket is all that remains of Jesse. Again and again and again Walt tries to make himself come to grips with it, because that's the way it might end up if Jesse doesn't stop stealing, and each time the thought almost staggers him with its inconceivability. Once again Jesse feels completely out of his hands. Once again Walt can't help him._

Who's asking you to?

_Bravado? Walt can't even tell. None of his approaches towards handling Jesse have ever worked. When he's distant, Jesse gets reckless and does something stupid to get his attention. But when he responds too openly, Jesse gets nervous and indignant and shuts him out. He doesn't know how to deal with Walt being candid because it happens so infrequently, and just like that they're back to where they started from._

But _if_. You understand? That if they ever found out...

_No. _

_No, not again. Walt can't let it happen that way this time. He won't just be the one strolling into the hospital room after it's all over. No one needs to ask him to protect Jesse; there's no one who will ask, least of all Jesse himself, but Walt will do it. This he decides as he cruises down the road and back to a vacant condominium space to spend another companionless night. He will protect Jesse from Gus. He has to. He already knows what it feels like to have a part of him cut out. Albeit it was a small part, but who could want to lose anything bigger?_

_And while his dream has followed almost exactly the way that day unfolded, when he reaches home and lies down, there isn't a fly on his smoke alarm. In his dream it's not all contaminated. And distantly, almost as if it's inside and outside his ears, he can hear the erratic but constant _plunk _of a drop on the faucet growing fatter until it drops into the sink._

_..._

Walter cracked an eye open and shut it right away. Snow was glaring in the sun outside the window, sending piercing spears of light bouncing in through the room and into Walt's corneas, breaking apart the last of his dream. He forgot it almost instantaneously as light perforated his eyelids. He turned his head from it, and his cheek rubbed against cool skin. He shifted a bit and became more awake and then there was no doubt as to where he was. He was resting between bare, slender legs and there were five long fingers on his neck. Walt raised his head and opened his eyes again, forcing them to adjust to the brightness. Once they had, he looked down at Jesse, who was, understandably, still conked out. His head was turned slightly, propped against a cushion, the curve of his jaw giving way to the flash of a pale throat, then the delicate slope into a smooth shoulder that peeked out from the lowered neckline of his t-shirt. For a minute Walt only looked, then he tugged the collar back up, covering more of Jesse's chest. He hoisted himself up off Jesse's sleeping form, sort of amazed that everything was still so heavy with the odor of good beer; probably given the way Jesse's shirt was still slightly damp with it.

Walt was exceedingly careful as he stood, more mindful of waking Jesse up than of puncturing his foot, which was a very real possibility since he had removed his shoes. Thankfully he didn't, and he safely retrieved the shoes from where he had left them, at the end of the futon, and laced them unhurriedly, looking back at Jesse again as he did so. Mouth ajar and eyelids dark, even in sleep he was obviously hung over. Walt felt a cramp in his stomach that he attributed to hunger, and paired with the sour feeling he already had leftover from the overzealous drink of straight liquor he had taken the night before, he decided it was about time to eat something. But first, a trip to the lavatory.

Besides the stinging residue of bourbon, Walt was actually feeling quite limber, even high-spirited, and there was a sort of buoyancy to his movements, even just as he picked his glasses up off the coffee table, perching them back onto his face. He straightened himself up and stretched his shoulder blades, scanning the room for a blanket, spotting one halfway underneath the futon. His back popped as he bent down to get it. As he rose again a flush crept onto his face as he realized his pants were still undone, and he nearly dropped the blanket in his haste to zip himself back up and readjust his belt, acting the way he would have done if he were in a room full of people who could see him. But Jesse was still asleep, and Walt draped the charcoal-colored fleece over his waist and swept his fingers over his cheek before ambling into the bathroom.

Drops of dried blood on the floor charted the course to the bathroom, and a bit of Walt's good mood died. He knew Jesse had a self-destructive side, the history of substance abuse told enough, but last night was the kind of human kamikaze Walt hadn't been at all prepared for. Well, it hadn't been the only thing from last night that he wasn't prepared for.

_I don't have a bed._

Walt shut his eyes and splashed water on his face. Jesse had been drunk, that was incontrovertible, but he had made the first move. Walt gave him the opportunity to call it off and he had turned it down. Well, it hadn't been much of an opportunity, just a considerate hold-off that only lasted until Jesse's lips had brushed him the second time, but it had been there. And if that wasn't enough he still had that ultimate fallback: Jesse had made the first move. After urinating and cleaning himself up, Walt helped himself to some mouthwash, and his stomach gave a particularly loud rumble just as he spit it down the sink.

_Oh, well, _so _sorry for ruining your night with my shit. _

He toweled his face off and left the bathroom. Jesse had been drunk, but it wasn't like Walt had held him down and forced him. He was there for Jesse when no one else was, and there was nothing nefarious about that. Walt might not be able to fully persuade the scrupulous part of his mind of that just yet while the aftershocks of the event were still rolling through him, but he could make breakfast. Yes, he could do that.

Regardless of wealth Jesse's entire environment still gave off the air of being impoverished, and the kitchen was exactly as Walt remembered it, the counters as wildly messy as the fridge was depressingly bare. Outside the fridge the only food items Walt could see were cereals and crackers (he couldn't see the Funyuns but he knew they were there); in the fridge was a pack of processed bologna, some cheese and butter, bread, pudding cups forgotten in the door shelf, a carton of milk, a jug of water, some flat container that might have been dip and might have been from the Clinton administration. A few loose, dry-looking oranges rolled around at the back, bumping into a box of baking soda. Even Walt, in all his improvisational abilities, couldn't hope to make anything palatable with what was already there. He would need to go out.

As he crossed the still highly treacherous living room floor, he considered waking Jesse up to tell him that he was going on a grocery run, but he figured he would likely be back in enough time that Jesse would still be slumbering heavily and wouldn't even know he was gone. For a second Walt thought he should clean up the floors in case Jesse did wake up and forgot about the glass everywhere and began stumbling carelessly through it, but he decided against it, recalling Jesse's wounded dignity about the issue, and Walt cleaning it up now would probably just make him mad. So he tip-toed to the door and when he opened it his chest was blasted with cold air, and for the second time he scrambled in embarrassment to cover himself, briskly doing up the buttons on his shirt that remained. Since many of them had been torn off, his shirt looked unacceptably ridiculous, even when he tucked it in, so he zipped his coat over it, all the way up to his chin, and headed out into a frosty Albuquerque morning.

Dredging forward to his car, the surreality of the past twenty four hours began to avalanche on him: letting himself into the place to see it was in chaos, half expecting to find Jesse cold and lifeless in some corner of the house only to have him appear from the hallway with his hands a shredded mess, but somehow almost oblivious to the state he and his house were in. And, Jesus, Walt had just wanted to help him and spend time with him, but any kind of extended interaction with Jesse had a bad disposition of being tricky and Walt's brazen house-call had quickly shown signs of falling into an undesirable quarrel. Instead it had fallen into something else, something not at all undesirable, and he remembered Jesse's words, spoken so close to his face, claiming Walt couldn't drive through the snow he was now walking in, although he had already braved it to get to Jesse in the first place. Then lips grazed his mouth in a ghost of something not quite a kiss, just a teaser of what he could have if he wanted it.

_And you did, didn't you? And did he feel the same?_

Yes. Yes. Walt would believe it now and continue to believe it unless Jesse himself ever said otherwise. Turning on the heat in the car, Walt rubbed his hands together, waiting for the engine to warm up before going anywhere. Then, if just to settle his mind which had not had any misgivings about bedding Jesse but which was now treating it as if it were a crime, Walt turned his attention to the first separate thought that came to him as he pulled away from Jesse's house.

...

_Walt is sitting behind his desk, looking over a file of recent test papers, trying to find the ones with the highest marks to submit for his own promotional consideration. Every semester Walt does this and every time he's left looking at scores that rarely go past seventy percent and every time he wonders what it is about him that the kids just don't respond to. Although he wouldn't doubt if it's the chemistry itself, seeing as the curriculum calls for making it as uninteresting as possible, so that even a man like Walt starts to find it mundane and forgets to resent the budget system which doesn't allow him the equipment necessary to perform any sort of experiment which might persuade the students of chemistry's true merits. And might remind Walter of them at the same time. _

_It's after class but there are still three students in the room, kept to finish homework they didn't turn in or read chapters they neglected during class. One of the students is of course Jesse Pinkman, who can never get away with a visit to chemistry without being detained at the end of it, and a girl and another boy whose names Walt doesn't remember. He does remember, however, that the girl and the boy were a couple and that they were there because they spent the class jawing with and ogling at each other instead of working, and once Walt seats them at opposite sides of the room they finish their leftover assignments in moments. They only stop once, when the girl attempts to fly a note to the boy, which is intercepted by Jesse, who is between them. He unfolds it and breaks into a giggling fit that lasts until Walt tells him he just bought himself another thirty minutes, at which point the giggling switches to the girl and the boy stops making threats to kick Jesse's ass later. Jesse gapes at Walt as if he's just sentenced him to electrocution, then balls the note up and throws it at Walt's desk, at which point the teacher says:_

_"An hour."_

_Then both the girl and the boy laugh because now Jesse looks like he just discovered the Earth is flat. He seems like he's about to swear himself into a fit, but he wisely stops himself, realizing that would only lead to further punishment. Or perhaps because he has nothing clever to say. The girl and the boy leave before Walt can rebuke them for their snickering, turning in finished work and linking hands as they go through the door. Walt shuffles the papers on his desk and goes back to what he was doing. _

_At first Jesse tries to give him the silent treatment. He crosses his arms and gets a small revenge by only occasionally pretending to be looking at his textbook. This goes on for at least fifteen minutes, which must be some kind of record, so that Walt actually starts to think Jesse might stay quiet for the rest of his detention. Then over the top of his file Walt can see him starting to fidget in his seat. After another couple of minutes he starts to drum his fingers, then tap his foot, and then he finally gives in to the familiar bouncing that means he wants to say something stupid and irrelevant. _

_He slaps his hand against the table to get Walt's attention. "Hey-"_

_"Get to work, Pinkman," Walt shuts him down right away. It's important to avoid engaging him on any level because Jesse is usually content enough to chatter into the open air and see that he's distracting Walt anyway, and as soon Walt lets himself be goaded into conversation Jesse's prattling goes into overdrive._

_He sticks his lips out to the side, dashed. But only for a moment, then he starts back up. "Hey, Mr. White-"_

_Walt sets the file down. "The longer you put it off the longer you'll be here," he says._

_"How do you know I wasn't gonna ask you something important?" Jesse counters, sharper than Walt expected. But still not sharp enough._

_The teacher tents his hands expectantly. "Well? If it has to do with the work then ask away."_

_Jesse hesitates, his bluff called. "It, uh, kind of does."_

_"Kind of?" Walt repeats, then sighs, his curiosity outweighing his patience. "All right, what is it?"_

_"Why did you become a teacher?"_

_The question comes so suddenly and carelessly that Walt, instead of being bored by the complete insignificance of it, is blind-sided by it. And the answer to the question comes to him quick enough, in broad strokes of words that have been in his mind ever since he stopped working in the labs._

Because, _is how the silent explanation starts. _It was an open field and it was something I thought I could do for a year or maybe two or for as long as it took to get my foot back in the door independent of my old colleagues. Then when that didn't happen I thought I could climb the ladder here and move on to working in a university or find any kind of position more prestigious than high school teacher. And when _that _didn't happen I decided it would be fine if I could just teach these kids but none of them even want to learn. Because my entire life has been made up of lost opportunities and repressed ambition and when I was young enough to jump through the hoops the people above me would just light them on fire and say jump through it again. Any time I thought I was coming close to achieving any single one of my goals someone close to me would screw me over and I'd be back at square one and shooting in the dark. But after a certain point a person has to stop shooting in the dark, when they get a family, a wife and a son who needs expensive physical therapy and special equipment. They have to give up and give in to whatever meager niche is left for them. They have to let their dreams gain such a lead on them that they can't possibly hope to be caught up to, and they have to watch their waist thicken and their hair thin. It'll happen to you too, kid. You think it won't but it will, just you watch.

_"... I wanted to share my knowledge of chemistry," is how Walt answers. _

_"Is that it?" Jesse tilts his head, taking Walt off guard a second time by being uncannily unconvinced. Or maybe he was just hoping for a longer distraction from his textbook._

_"Yes," Walt lies absently. "Now back to work."_

_Jesse goes back to pretending to read over his work for half a second before he pipes up again. "Are you sure that's all it is-"_

_"Jesse."_

_"-'cause I was worried it was because you like torturing kids or something-"_

_"Jesse. Work."_

_"-but that's not it, right? 'Cause you weren't serious about making me stay here for an hour, were you?"_

_Walt sighs in what is probably defeat. "You wouldn't have to if you would just do the work instead of sitting there and gabbing." _

_"Mr. White, come on," Jesse whines playfully, drawing out his words. "Can't I do it tomorrow?"_

_"Tomorrow's Saturday," Walt deadpans._

_Jesse looks at him expressionlessly for a minute... then cracks a wide smile that Walt's memory tells him won the argument, as ridiculous as it is. "Oh yeah," he says, as if he's honestly forgotten. "I might still do it at home."_

_Walt can't remember if he let Jesse go right there or if he just dropped the purported charge of an hour; he has an image in his head of Jesse retrieving the paper ball he had tossed at him earlier and dropping it in the wastebasket on his way out the door as if in thanks, so Walt knows he must have done one or the other. Probably the first, given how his resistance to bullshitting students was not the way it was then as it would be years later. Another image that stands out in his mind is when, after Jesse had gone, Walt had started to look over the work that he and the young couple had left, marking the girl's and the boy's first, and when he came to Jesse's paper all that was written on it was a loud, jovial:_

_"Hi!"_

_And he remembers smiling. Usually Walt would be aggravated when Jesse turned in blank papers and that time wasn't a complete exception, he wrote the F across it and everything, but the smile had still been there. Only that time he never got the chance to hand it back to Jesse and lecture him, because - and this is what he remembers most clearly - this is the week before he'll find Jesse on the ground behind the school, staring into space with red-rimmed eyes that are almost all pupil, trembling arms wrapped around shaking knees and sweat matting his hair. And he does call Jesse's parents and they end up making such an uproar about it that the area behind the school - and any other nook in which a group of stoners might conceal themselves - is fenced off and monitored. After that Jesse's attendance drops to almost nil and Walt ends up failing him; and it's half a relief and half a disappointment but not a surprise when his name never shows up on the list of returning students._

_..._

Trips to the supermarket now inexorably served to remind Walt of his ostensible fugue state and what he had eloquently deemed "the world's most expensive alibi". Thinking of that reminded him of whirlwinds of other things, the second cellphone, Skyler's distant behavior, speaking to the psychiatrist, and Tuco. Tuco, who had wanted to take him to Mexico with absolutely zero regard for how Walt felt about it, and who had no intention of bringing Jesse along or of letting him go, and when Walt thought about it the odds of them escaping in one piece just seemed to escalate in his mind. Why did twists of luck favor him when what he was doing was so blatantly wrong? And how did it come to pass that all the misfortunes would be directed at his family? Hank, in the case of Tuco, and later again in the case of Tuco's cousins, Walt couldn't help wondering how close to the abyss he had truly gotten and how much closer he was sure to get.

He shuffled through the aisles, piling things into a basket, the tootling characterless grocery store music traveling idly through his eardrums from the intercom. In such an ordinary setting he felt almost alien. None of the other tired, early-morning shoppers scuffling their shoes along the linoleum had any idea who he was or the things he had done. They saw an average, unremarkable middle-aged man buying groceries, that was all. They had no reason to grovel before him or fall back in horror. At one point Walt passed a uniformed policewoman filling a paper cup from the automatic espresso machine and she didn't even look in his direction. She had no idea. None at all. In certain moods such things would tinge Walt with an undeserved sense of invisibility and invincibility, but in other moods he would only be bewildered, almost to a point of wanting to shout:_ "Why are you just standing there? It's Heisenberg! Right here! Look, look!" _

Not because he was proud, no, certainly not, but because sometimes he didn't want to believe in how easy it was for him to slip through the cracks based off of his pedestrian appearance and undistinguished reputation. To acquaintances and casual observers alike Walt seemed utterly incapable of being impeached for anything. Only now, to those in his personal orbit, his criminal life was becoming more known, which was precisely opposite of what he wanted. Skyler knew about him, as much as she had learned on her own and what Walt allowed her to know, and Marie had a falsified version of his misdeeds, and even worse than before everything he did had a consequence and someone watching. For every action there was a reaction, or so the Wayfarer disaster had inclined him to sometimes believe.

Except for last night. Walt's steps became more undirected as his thoughts drifted back that way. Even as his mind struggled to touch upon a huge fault in what had occurred, Walt had already accepted it, and fitted it in with the rest of his mosaic of life. It was natural in a way that was immaculately unnatural, something he hadn't planned or expected but something that seemed almost inevitable. Walt could take the event into his memory, alcohol scented breath against his face and angular fingers pressed into his shoulders and slim hips in his grasp. Warmth tinted with electricity. It was solar systems away from being an utopian setting but since that was true for everything else in Walt's life it hadn't altered his feelings in the least.

And then in the corner of his memory he could still see the glass all over the floor. The bandages on the hands that touched him. He didn't expect it to be idealistic but it could have been a little less macabre. That way he wouldn't have to keep repeatedly snuffing the thought that a completely sober and composed Jesse wouldn't have... Would have _never... _

Walt reached for his wallet, having already steered himself towards the checkout. How could he think of it that way when Jesse had come to him willingly, even fervently? There was no point in thinking of it like that when he hadn't even spoken to Jesse yet either. Walt paid and exited the store, grateful when no other memories from years before were stirred as he drove off again. It was absurd enough thinking of those days, remembering Jesse the way he was back in high school, particularly keeping in mind the fact that Walter had just slept with him and he was having a hard enough time not feeling like a cradle-robber as it was.

Still, he couldn't help comparing the skinny kid who intermittently turned up for his class at J.P. Wynne in his memory to the skinny young man who had been on the futon with him this morning. It seemed improbable that they could be one and the same. How could it be that Jesse's worst habit had once been sketching in class instead of shooting needles? Walt frequently allowed himself to fall into obsessive lapses about the uncontrollability of life and the unforeseeable outcomes any decision can have, insignificant or monumental, and the volatile tendencies of the universe to zig when Walt thought it would zag, leaving him standing stuporous in an illogical place with no idea as to how he got there. An illogical place where a simple but happy creature like Jesse could ever have been a heroin abuser. Or one where Walt was technically divorced, had lung cancer, and manufactured methamphetamine to earn his bread.

Now, though, the obsessive lapse was nothing more than a fleeting rumination, and for the rest of the drive back to Jesse's house, Walt's mind was mostly calm.

...

_Gorgeous crimson and amber light paints the dry and otherwise visually uninteresting landscape. Under these colors, even the long-dead grasses and the sun bleached dust can look enchanting. The sky is darkening fast but for the moment the entire world around him is captivating; Negra Arroyo Lane may as well be in another dimension. The desert heat has lifted though there is no breeze. The vegetation is still. Life is still. Even the insects are taking a break from their mindless buzzing as a courtesy to this moment of natural grandeuer. His hands are folded in his lap, and he is almost serene. But he can't help thinking that there is something morbid in admiring a sunset considering where he is right now. There is something equally disturbing about the way he has only begun to appreciate the real charm of nature when death is so close._

_Walt looks to his left. The stunning blend of reds and oranges washes the chalky skin of spindly fingers wrapped around a half-smoked cigarette, dangling lazily from the hand that holds it, marked with a meaningless insignia that also manages to look fascinating as the shades of night fall upon it. The cigarette rises through the silent evening air, leaving wisps of blue-gray vapor in ephemeral tendrils, and the tip of a tongue moistens pink lips before they close around it and the ember glows brighter. In the late desert luster, the whole thing looks like an art form. The ashes on the end of the cigarette grow and it's lowered again as lips part to exhale a thin, elegant jet of smoke that crawls sensuously through the air until it fades away into nothing. One slender bone makes the impulsive movement to tap the ashes away and Walt watches as they crumble and become lost in the dirt, insignificant forever._

_Eyes as blue as any drug Walter could create turn his way, having noticed the unconcealed observation._

_"What are you looking at?"_

_Walt knew the question was coming, though he expected more suspicion and less curiosity. He looks out into the endless fields of dust and dry grass, already becoming unattractive again as the pleasant illumination disappears. His hands move from his lap up to his face to remove his glasses so he might rub his eyes. "Nothing."_

_"Pretty, huh?"_

_At first the words make absolutely no logical sense to his ears. As he looks back he sees the same digit which had dashed the ashes gesture towards the sky, which is clinging to a faint shade of red. Walt had assumed he was alone in his admiration of it but apparently he wasn't. Eyebrows are lifted up in some expectation of agreement and a smile makes a transient appearance on his face._

_"Beautiful."_

_He's stared at briefly... then the corners of the mouth turn upward in amusement, revealing small white teeth and another kind of light, one Walt would have missed in a different state of mind. "You're such a nerd, Mr. White." The cigarette is dropped and crushed under a sneaker. "Come on. Before we gotta throw the damn methylamine to the dogs."_

_"I'll be right there," he calls to an already retreating back. With darkness almost fully settled around him he can see the glint of something near his foot and he takes the liberty of squashing the rest of the ember which managed to survive its first trampling. With it extinguished all light near him is gone. He places his glasses on his nose and it takes only a moment for his euphoria to wane, and he cuts through the heavy presence of night and back to the RV. _

_The air inside the vehicle is hot and dense. Just breathing it in makes Walt's chest feel more congested, and it's already weighing him down enough as it is. His creation sits clear and perfect inside flasks and beakers and all he can think about is his body being slowly but surely corroded, black and rotted, drying up and fading away, losing everything that composes it until it's just as ugly and forgotten as a clump of spent-up ashes falling into baked desert dirt._

_"You're on shift tonight, remember."_

_He's the only one that knows it, the only one that can feel that sickness gnawing away inside him, peeling away his interior and biting at him until it pushes blood up into his throat and leaves him feeling splintered, like he might fall apart any second._

_Even though there's a metallic taste on his tongue even now, he doesn't ask to switch shifts, he doesn't mention the pain and the illness and the exhaustion, he just waves his hand and says:_

_"Yes, I didn't forget. Believe it or not, some people have attention spans."_

_In this world he's met with no words of sympathy, no questions as to whether he's all right, no offers to talk about it._

_"Yeah? Go take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut Keep that in your attention span."_

_And though outwardly he only shakes his head, unimpressed and disapproving and all those things he is and ought to be, for a minute, everything actually feels okay._

_..._

All that greeted Walt upon his return was the glass he had abstained from cleaning up. The charcoal blanket was a pool of fabric where Jesse had been. Walt was immediately hit with a stab of worry that he tried to disregard just as quickly. Because Jesse was fine. Why wouldn't he be? He was perfectly okay, he had just woken up sooner than Walt thought he would and had gone to the kitchen to get some water. Or something.

"Jesse," Walt called. No answer. He called again, a third time, and silence followed each time. Still carrying the two plastic bags of grocery items, Walt crept through the hallway, looking around in all directions, then began ascending the stairs. It seemed unlikely that Jesse would go upstairs but that would account for him not being able to hear Walter's beckoning. Yes, yes it would.

_You're treating this like a scene in a horror movie. Stop being paranoid. _

Paranoid? Not he. He was just casually roaming the upstairs part of Jesse's house, casually looking for him, casual as Hell. Behaving as if he were worried would imply that there was a reason to be. He tried calling Jesse once more and was met with the same results as before, and the stiff whumping in his chest increased. He passed open doors which led to empty rooms and darted his tongue over lips that had quickly become chapped with the air from outside.

_Déja vu, that's what this is. _

History did have a habit of repeating itself. Walt picked up his pace a little. He came to the door of the bathroom and knocked on it with some hesitation, pushing it open when he got no response, and he almost dropped the bags in surprise when he saw an arm dangling over the rim of the tub, with dark ink traveling up the wrist in a nebulous tattoo.

He snapped his fingers, which took an effort, since they had gone sweaty. "Hey!"

Jesse jolted and opened his eyes. "Whoa, hey," he said back, retracting his arm into the water with the rest of him, drawing his knees up a bit.

"Why weren't you answering me?" Walt asked, trying not to sound interrogative. Or irritated. Jesse had just been taking a bath, of course. There wasn't a toaster or waffle iron on the edge of the tub either, and that was a good sign.

"I thought you left." Rubbing an arm across his face tiredly, he didn't seem to have heard Walt's question at all.

Though Walt was intrigued by the lack of an undertone in Jesse's statement- it was neither a veiled _What are you still doing here? _nor a _I would have slit my wrists if you hadn't come back_ - he was more interested in an answer to his inquiry. "I did. But I was calling you just now. Why didn't you answer me?"

Jesse looked abashed and Walt regretted being so short. "Oh. Sorry. I guess I didn't hear you. I was spacing out a little bit," he said, self-consciously picking at his ear. "I might've even been falling asleep again. So, uh, thanks for wakin' me up. Where'd you go?"

"I went to get groceries. And bandages. I thought you'd sleep later. How are you-" Walt cleared his throat. "How are your hands feeling?"

Jesse looked down at his upturned palms with distaste. The compresses had been removed for the bath and the wounds looked almost as terrible as they did the last time Walt saw them. "Bad," he said. "Like, really really bad. Bending them hurts like hell."

"Do you want to go to the hospital now?" Jesse shook his head. "Ah. Well, I'm going to make breakfast, so I'll be in the kitchen if you change your mind."

"Kay," Jesse agreed, then sat up straighter when Walt turned to go. "Wait, leave me the bandages. I can put 'em on myself this time," he said, with a subtle look that made it clear that if Walt wanted to argue about it, they would. Fortunately for both of them Walt didn't, and he relinquished the item without complaint, much to Jesse's approval. "Thanks. I'll come downstairs in a minute."

"All right," Walt nodded, feeling a massive wave of relief as soon as he shut the door behind himself. Jesse was clearly exhausted and was a bit hazy for a minute there, but otherwise he seemed altogether up to snuff. He wasn't angry or chagrined either and that in itself took a huge weight off of Walt's mind. It appeared as if his qualms about the previous night had been for nothing.

_Does Jesse think so?_

Walt paused by the edge of the counter. He set the bags down amongst the general disarray of the kitchen and contemplated, quickly coming to the conclusion that yes, Jesse thought so. If he didn't, he would have said something just now. His uncertainty dispelled for the moment, Walt set to work clearing a space to cook, stooping down to load things into the fridge. As he did so he spotted in his periphery something he had missed the first time: an unopened case of beer sitting next to the kitchen island.

_Jesus Christ, he would have just kept going._

Walt decided it was best not to think about that and focused on cooking, turning the burner on low and then hunting for a pan, which ended up taking a lot longer than he would have liked, as it began to seem that there might not even be a pan in the house to speak of. Finally he found one hidden in a clump of cereal boxes and tupperware, gave it a quick and much needed rinse in the sink, and he had no sooner started cracking eggs into a bowl when Jesse came in. "Do you want to go after all?" Walt asked from over his shoulder.

Hair still damp, wearing an enormous grey long sleeved shirt that billowed around him like a sail with the equally loose edges of boxer shorts barely visible under the hem, Jesse looked emaciated but still much better than he had before. "No, I'm making coffee," he answered on his way by the stove, reaching up into the cupboards and pulling out an open box of coffee filters, then looking around for something else- perhaps the coffee pot itself. He'd applied the bandages as he said he would, although predictably the dressing looked messier than Walt's had been.

Walt observed the wince that came each time Jesse grabbed something or made any movement more complex than a footstep and frowned. "I can do that," he offered.

Jesse gave him a weird look (_You are not going to sweep my fucking floors now, _Walt thought), then his expression changed back to something more amiable. "Nah, you're cooking. That's gonna take forever. I'll do it."

He had just dragged the coffee pot from a particularly messy corner of the counter and plugged it in when Walt ventured to speak again. "I really don't mind, if you want to go sit down."

"That's okay, man, seriously," Jesse said, sounding impatient. "I'm good to do this."

"If you insist," Walt acquiesced, and he opted to just be quiet when Jesse looked miffed again.

Jesse hung around silently while Walt cooked, waiting for the coffee to brew, leaned up against the island for support. Walt glanced over at him once and caught him staring at the case of beer Walt had spied earlier, and he couldn't tell if he was looking at it with revulsion or temptation. Perhaps it was neither. Jesse didn't see Walt looking at him and his eyes went back to the coffee pot as it dripped out its last, filling the kitchen with the aroma of cheap, instant grind.

As with any activity that required precision and concentration, Walt became engrossed with his cooking and was so absorbed in the preparation that he didn't even notice when Jesse left the kitchen. Walt toasted bread and chopped chilies, his tranquility beginning to grow into lightheartedness as the smell of eggs overpowered the odor of inferior coffee. As unappetizing as the beverage seemed to him he poured himself a mug of it anyway, neglecting to drink from it the moment he set it down to go back to cooking. The whole process of making breakfast was so ordinary that it allowed Walt to think about the night before more impartially, which would do a lot towards assuaging this unfounded trepidation.

It had all started out normally, beginning with Skyler calling him in the early evening before he could drop her his two-hours notice, lest Junior have to experience a fatherless Christmas, which would surely inspire some of that old resentment toward his mother. It was nice enough at first, although all parts of the evening were tainted with tricky points of conversation and edgy moments, particularly when Marie had arrived sans Hank, who had only sent gifts for the family over, explaining that his physical therapist had run him into the ground and he was too tired to join them. Junior had been deflated over this and Skyler chose to shoot Walt a shrewd, accusatory look. And when Marie saw some of what Walt had bought - specifically a new computer for Junior's room, a very lavish, very expensive computer - she also started to pass him those awful, knowing glances. The atmosphere of the home had gradually shifted to one where Walt again felt like an outsider or an intruder, with only his son, who knew nothing of his criminal acts, to quell this.

He had not become concerned with the thought of Jesse right away. It was actually only until after dinner that Walt began to wonder about him and what he was doing. His first thought was that Jesse would be doing much the same as Walt was... And then he remembered Jesse's polemic against him from his hospital bed - _I have__** nothing, no one **__- _and he started to feel restless. Jesse's parents had cast him out. Walt wasn't sure if they had washed their hands of him so completely that he would be denied joining them on Christmas, but the way Jesse talked about them made it seem at least a possibility. And he was very much without the other person he would have spent the evening with if he could, so it was plausible that Jesse was alone. As it got later the thought of that began to disturb Walt more and more, but even after he left his family (which was when Junior had gone to sleep, as staying with Skyler and Marie when interaction with them was so prickly seemed infeasible) he hadn't intended to stop by Jesse's house. For all he knew Jesse had gone to a party with his numbskull friends and had enjoyed himself. But as Walt's thoughts became more occupied with Jesse the image of him just sitting around by himself became clearer until Walt had finally succumbed and decided to go for broke by visiting him. Even knowing that Jesse might think it was stupid, Walt committed to a drop-in, and he thought he would share the bottle of classy bourbon he had bought for himself earlier as a kind of peace offering, assuming Jesse didn't tell him to get lost as soon as he answered the door. Walt had considered doing something more personal and maybe getting Jesse an actual present, but there was nothing Walt could buy him that he couldn't buy himself. And if Jesse would think Walt showing up at his house late at night was stupid, if he also had a gift with him it might have collapsed the whole thing.

_Don't be an idiot. You never planned to drink that bourbon by yourself, you didn't just 'forget it' in your car, and you didn't leave Skyler and Marie because you just couldn't handle the way they were looking at you._

Walt slid a spatula underneath an omelet and turned it over, idly stroking his chin with his other hand. It had all been so anomalous, from the minute he had stepped into the house to see beer bottles smashed to pieces on the ground. Then Jesse, trying to behave as though everything was hunky-dory and that Walt was the insane one. All the same, Walt tried to go along with that, in lieu of continuing to offer his aid, which would only have pissed Jesse off. Then...

_You _owe _me, man._

What the hell did that even mean? Walt hadn't meant to insinuate that he was doing Jesse some favor, and he hoped Jesse didn't think that's what it was about. Even now Walt still wasn't entirely sure what it was about, but it just wasn't that. What he did know was that it had been good. Damn good, from the minute Jesse had kissed him, once the sheer disbelief had released his senses and let him enjoy it. He had become engulfed in desire so quickly that he couldn't really believe he had simply been affected by the moment. Part of him had wanted Jesse, and all Walt could do was stop himself from speculating over just why and for how long. Walt had immersed himself so deeply that the thought of his wife had never even reached his mind until the next day. Perhaps that was what was troubling his conscience, although he could tell it now that it shouldn't be niggling itself over that too much. Skyler had already slept with Ted Beneke and all that survived of Walt's marriage as he knew it was a piece of paper and a pair of rings.

_Yes, and whose fault is that?_

But it wasn't about blame this time. It wasn't about Skyler this time. That was something separate from this, and yet it must have been what was perturbing him, because once he had forgiven himself for his theoretical infidelity his mind cleared wondrously, and he was back to feeling chipper as he turned off the burner and slid two omelets onto a pair of dishes. He stacked some toast on top of them, dropped a fork on the edge of each dish, and he tried first to balance both plates in one hand so he might also carry the coffee but he decided that was probably a bad idea and forewent the coffee for the moment, bringing the omelets out first. When he came into the living room he saw that Jesse had gotten a broom and was finishing what appeared to be the extremely draining undertaking of sweeping the glass into a pile. Walt watched the extraordinarily careful way he was moving, like an animation, and the way he kept stopping as if to periodically regain his strength. Again Walt wanted to volunteer himself and sweep in Jesse's place, but Jesse could be damn stubborn when he wanted to be, and he was still adamant about cleaning up the mess he had made.

He looked over when Walt set the plates down, almost hunched over his broom. "You got a big thing for omelets, huh?" he said with a small flicker of a smile.

Walt looked up fretfully. "Is there something you'd prefer? Because I can-"

"No, no, Mr. White, this is good," Jesse assured him, dropping the broom where he stood and moving over to the futon in that same laborious way. "Your omelets are good."

Walt smirked a little pridefully at that, the compliment briefly immunizing him to the tremendous care Jesse put in to sitting down. Once he had, he bundled himself in the blanket and picked up his coffee mug, looking peculiarly languid as he sipped at it. Walt sat down next to him, forgetting his coffee in the kitchen, and took a bite of his omelet.

"That's right," he recalled, as if he hadn't already. "You've eaten these before."

Jesse nodded, taking a bite of toast about as big as a mouse could have managed. "At your house. It was after we were fighting in the RV." At the mention of the RV, Walt noticed, Jesse looked unmistakably wistful. He couldn't help feeling a little nostalgic himself. "Was that the same time I called you 'Walt'?" Jesse wondered aloud.

"No, but that was pretty soon after. In the RV again."

Jesse smiled with a lot more heart than he had the first time. "That was actually kinda funny," he mused.

"Hm?" Chewing.

"Me calling you by your first name when I was pissed at you," Jesse elaborated. "It just seems funny now."

"Well it is, I suppose," Walt agreed in a distrait manner. Feeling slightly silly with affection that overtook him in a moment of reminiscence, he reached out to pet Jesse's hair, playing with the ends that curled behind his ear. Jesse watched him do it, with his lips attached to the edge of a cup most of his expression was hidden from Walt's interpretation but he made no indication that it bothered him at all. Encouraged by that, Walt slid an arm part-way around his shoulders, one hand still fiddling with short strands of hair while the other broke apart the omelet with a fork.

"I noticed you call me 'Pinkman' when you're giving me shit, too," Jesse went on, seeming to be in deep thought, continuing to only take nips of coffee.

"Aren't you going to eat?" Walt asked.

Jesse jerked a little, as if startled awake. "Oh yeah. 'Course." He reached for the fork, leisurely cubing the omelet on his plate, pausing noticeably before eating a piece.

_He probably wants something to put on it. Ketchup or some kiddy thing like that._

Walt thought about offering to get him a condiment if that was what he wanted, but refrained when Jesse kept eating, like he'd finally realized he was actually hungry. Walt allowed conversation to dry up again, and tried to find the silence comfortable. But it was hard, with the signs of last night's distress still sitting around out in the open. The glass was swept into a clump but it was still there. The blood had dried to nearly the same color as the floor but it was still there. The injuries on Jesse's hands were hidden from view but they were still there. Walt was filled with the compulsion to press Jesse about it, to ask him what the hell he thought he was doing, ask him what had driven him to such an extreme act of self-abuse. But he didn't. He talked about trivialities instead.

"So, you don't have a TV," Walt pointed out.

"What? You bored?" Jesse asked, half a tease and half a serious question.

Walt accepted the levity but he still wanted a real answer. "I just thought you'd invest in an expensive entertainment system, if nothing else."

"Well, I did have one, but it bailed on me awhile ago."

_Did it 'bail on' him? Or did he break it?_

"Oh. So you haven't gotten around to replacing it."

"Nope."

Walt gobbled the last of his omelet and set his fork down, permitting silence to run through the room again for a few more minutes. "... We could go look for one later. If you're up to it. It is Boxing Day, after all."

Jesse had gone back to sipping listlessly from his mug, but he sat it down then, empty. He had left his food half finished and Walt had the impression that that's the way it would stay. "Maybe we could, yeah. All the awesome flat screens'll probably get bought up before I feel like going anywhere, though."

"Hm. Maybe we should just stay in."

"You wanna hang out all day?" Jesse asked, surprised and unsure but underneath that also... pleased.

"Well, I would like to spend some time here, with you, today, yes,"Walt said, imputing the clumsiness of the sentence to more distracting fondness that came from looking at Jesse's sleepy face. Walt rubbed his shoulder through the blanket, then pulled him closer, not just to kiss his cheek, but he figured he may as well since it was right next to him. Jesse sketched a vague little smile and Walt paused, kissed again, just the cheek and then the jaw, and, starting to feel overcome, he began picking at Jesse's shirt, kissing again, again, delighting in the freshness of his skin. Jesse didn't resist it, even began to ease into it, then he became suddenly unyielding and pulled away.

"Oh, no! Shit!" he cursed, getting up off the futon without explanation, leaving a heap of blanket in his place as his body heat was abruptly and carelessly yanked from Walt. He crossed the room and knelt down, blocking what ever it was that had diverted him. "How did this get knocked over?" He picked the thing up carefully and brought it to the table, treating it as though it was a glass box of expensive jewels.

"A cactus?" Walt said, making an amazing effort not to sound annoyed that a houseplant was the culprit responsible for Jesse's backpedal.

"Yeah. I didn't even notice it was spilled over. Dammit. Do you think it's okay?"

Walt took an impassive glance at the plant when Jesse set it down on the table. The pot was cracked all the way up one side and it had lost some dirt on the floor where it had been for an indeterminable amount of time. "It should be," Walt said dismissively. "It looks all right."

Reassured, Jesse patted the dirt in the planter down gently, but didn't return to the futon. "Saul gave this to me," he explained, sounding like he was confessing an embarrassing personal secret, looking at the cactus instead of Walt. "As a housewarming present. He's weird."

"He is." _So why do you care about some cactus he gave you?_

"It's a nice plant though," Jesse added, answering Walt's unasked question.

Walt was convinced that now Jesse was waiting for him to acknowledge the plant before the subject would be dropped. So he thought of something to say about it. "You know, the cactus is a symbol of warmth and protection. And endurance too, I think."

Jesse seemed interested. "Really? Why?"

Walt shrugged and Jesse looked disappointed. "I don't know, actually."

"Maybe it's 'cause they grow in the desert," Jesse suggested thoughtfully, his expression becoming even more preoccupied as he noticed something on the table next to his cactus. "Jesus, we left the bourbon out all night."

"Just-" _Forget about it, _Walt wanted to say, but Jesse was already carrying the bottle into the kitchen. As Walt stretched back against the futon by himself, his mind recommenced pestering him; this time about the fact that for as much as he thought about the night before, he hadn't mentioned it yet. He had simply assumed that Jesse had accepted it the same as he did. He had even started to physically advance again without warning. Now he couldn't tell if Jesse was genuinely concerned about the cactus and the bourbon or if Walter had made him uncomfortable.

_So talk about it._

That was the logical thing to do. But the concept bred uneasiness in Walt's stomach. He truly believed that, just this once, something between him and Jesse had been uncomplicated, even wonderful. If there was a possibility that this belief of his, this want of his, might be contradicted...

_So what? You're just going to say nothing?_

Well, he couldn't do that exactly, but he didn't have to bring up what could reveal itself to be a difficult subject just yet. If there was something weighing on Jesse's mind about it, he would tell Walt... wouldn't he? Walt started to doubt this when several minutes passed and Jesse remained in the kitchen, doing who knows what. Walt started to feel antsy and almost got up to go into the kitchen himself when Jesse came back out, carrying two mugs. In all Walt's irritation over the cactus (_Why would Saul give him that anyway?_) he hadn't even noticed that Jesse brought his cup with him. That's what took him so long. Of course.

"I know you're kinda spoiled for coffee but I thought you might want it anyway," he said upon his return, handing Walt the mug he had left in the kitchen. It was almost too warm to hold. "I reheated it for you but I left it too long..."

"That's fine," Walt said unconcernedly. "Come sit down."

And finally Jesse did so, carefully positioning himself so he sat sort of at an angle, on his thigh, and began taking those same small, steady sips of coffee. Walt took a perfunctory drink and then set his down. He thought he would boldly ask something about the night before, or even just begin to blithely talk about it, but his tongue was still and dry in his mouth. He ran a hand along his head and fixed his gaze on the cactus. Protection. Endurance. Something had to be said, even if it was just some apathetic observation. The more Walt thought about it the more his doubt increased, the less he was able to believe that all these glaring signs of anguish about the room had not been major players in Jesse's abrupt sexual desire, though he still didn't have an inkling as to exactly what other reasons Jesse could have for doing such a thing other than the obvious ones, the ones Walt had originally suspected.

"Jesse..." Walt started, and right away was hit with a foreboding sense that he should have just aimed for more small talk about something prosaic. "About last night..."

Again the feeling of a door being shut in his face. Not slamming this time, at least, but closing just the same. "What is it, Mr. White?"

Regardless of the emotional shut-off, Walt did feel some guarded relief over Jesse's apparent impression that there was nothing to be discussed. And therefore, no confusing issues to work out. Just Walt being paranoid again. "I was wondering..."

_If you feel like I took advantage of you. If _I _feel like I took advantage of you. If there's any reason for me to be anxious about it or if I'm troubling myself over nothing. If you're giving off conflicting tempers towards it, and me, on purpose or subconsciously. Or if you're even doing it all. _

"... if ..."

_You were trying to kill yourself or just entertaining the idea._

"... you..."

_Would have been pained at all by rejection or if you were only doing it because, somehow, you knew I wanted it._

"... were..."

_So drunk and miserably disorientated that it could have been anyone, not me necessarily. _

"... upset about it all."

Jesse was puzzled and the guards around Walt's relief dispersed. Walt had not said what ever it was Jesse had been dreading, and Walt shared his relief over this as well. "No, man, I'm not upset about it, I'm wiped out by it."

_He's fatigued. It's plain to see. Give him space for the day, he'll be fine. Just be gentle._

"Oh. Yes, I imagine you would be," Walt eagerly agreed. "Maybe you want to go back to sleep?"

"I would, but I just got all pumped full of caffeine," Jesse said, shaking his cup a little as a reminder. He was quiet for a few moments, then bravely asked: "Why'd you think I was upset?"

Walt could only shrug. He thought the conversation would idle or go commonplace again, but now that he had brought last night up, Jesse became meditative and Walt knew he was going to say something about it. He stared at the cactus and tapped his finger against his mug pensively for a few moments, then set it down and turned completely to Walt, and his expression was slightly disquieting; he wasn't just going to say something about it, he was going to try to explain something about it.

"Hey, you know what, I read in this really weird book a long time ago... Well, I was actually just skimming through the back of it 'cause it got boring, but anyway, I read in this book where these people got it on, but it was to like, show that they were linked or something, and it was like a..." He broke off, searching for the right words to describe it. He bumped his fingertips against each other, then started to lace his minced digits together, almost as if he was unaware of the thin red lines that spidered them. "Like a... bonding..." Lacing more tightly now as his mind finally seized upon the word he wanted. "Pact. Thing."

Walt raised an eyebrow. Now he wasn't actually sure if Jesse meant to relate it to them or not. "Would you liken it to this?"

Jesse's hands shot apart and quickly dropped back into his lap. "I dunno. I was just thinking about it 'cause... You know." He looked away, a light color rising to his face. "But I guess all sex is kinda like that."

"If it's good," Walt amended. Jesse fell silent again for several more minutes, appearing to be rolling a thought around in his head. Walt expected some horrible question to come from him when he finally did speak. '_Was I good?' _That was it. That was what he was working up the courage to ask. Walt didn't know why he thought that because it was fairly terrible, but it almost wouldn't have been more surprising than what Jesse did say when he finally broke the quiet, his eyes cautiously turning Walt's way again

"We can... We can do it again if you want."

"Right now?" Walt questioned, scandalized.

Jesse recoiled. "No! No, not right now. I just meant... I meant..."

"All right, all right, I think I know what you meant," Walt hushed. _Do I? _he wondered. He believed he did, at least, and either way Jesse looked grateful that he didn't have to explain himself, and he didn't draw away when Walt took his face in his hands and kissed his somewhat unreceptive lips. He tasted better and did respond after a second, but Walt reminded himself of his pledge to give Jesse space and spend the day accommodating him, knowing that was the way he should do things, but in that instant he was overwhelmed by those same carnal desires; it could have been Jesse's submission of the idea of going to bed together again sometime that dissolved Walt's vow to leave him be, because then all his old beliefs were renewed, as well as his wants. That Jesse would broach the proposal of having him again while he was sober was as relieving as it was marvelously exciting, so even while Walt told himself to let up, back off, his body just couldn't seem to do it. Jesse was at first unmoved, watching Walt's arm curl around his waist, finally starting warm up in the hold when it became apparent the attack on his lips was going to persist. And though Jesse was without his intoxicated invigoration, he was livelier in a sense: his skin was refreshed from bathing and his mouth was crisper and cleaner, now faintly sweet with the flavor of mouthwash and sugary coffee instead of tasting overpoweringly of alcohol and vomit. Walt clasped the small of his back and placed his other hand on Jesse's bare knee, moving it up his thigh, sliding his fingers into the loose leg hole of his shorts. Jesse squirmed a little but he settled himself quickly and there was no feeling of being shut out.

_What do you think you're doing? What if you start going too far and he doesn't tell you to stop?_

He had no answer to placate his internal dialogue this time. If Jesse didn't tell him to stop he probably wouldn't, because his craving was still strong, and Jesse was so close. Walt kissed his lips again, then brought his face lower to lick his collarbone, favoring the skin between his shoulder and his neck. Jesse drew his shoulder up, his hands staying at his sides, his fingers giving cursory brushes of Walt's leg, breath quickening any time Walt's invasive hand strayed too close to his groin.

"Um, Mr. White-"

"What?" Jesse was quiet and Walt abated a little. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing."

Walt was bemused but he resumed what he was doing, and it took only a minute for his zeal to get back into full swing as if there had been no interruption. His lips went back to the crook of Jesse's shoulder, enthralled by how fantastically soft the skin there was. Jesse's damaged hands still didn't move and the closest he came to talking for awhile was the frequency in which his Adam's apple rode up and down his throat. Then Walt pulled him closer with too much force, and he yipped with pain.

"Ow, fuck, don't do that," he groused, voice piqued and eyes hurt.

"Sorry," Walt said quickly. The hand inside Jesse's shorts caressed his hip apologetically.

"Whatever," Jesse muttered, and he wriggled again, nettled by being yanked around. Walt could feel Jesse's sharp, jutting bones move against him, which was worrisome. He didn't think Jesse had always been that thin.

"Sorry, sorry," he repeated, kissing up along Jesse's neck until he got back to his mouth, his arm not leaving Jesse's waist even as his protruding bones shifted vexedly. "... I can feel your ribs."

"Yeah, so what, I could probably feel yours too if I tried," Jesse replied all in one breath, once he had broken away from Walt long enough to speak.

"Oh really, you think so? Well then..." Walt removed his fingers from Jesse's clothing and with immense care - partly to make up for tugging on him earlier - took Jesse's hand and brought it closer. "Why don't you?"

Jesse looked at him for a moment, his eyes open and unreserved, then almost diffident. Uncertain. He directed his attention to his hand, just barely grazing Walt's jacket for the first few seconds. He adopted a look of deep concentration as his fingers connected with the older man's body, finally touching Walt, touching him and really feeling him, for the first time since the previous night. He pressed his hand against Walt's ribs, though very lightly; with the lacerations on his skin he couldn't be asked to do much more. He started probing about that entire side, as though resolutely searching for a place in which Walt's bones stuck out. Jesse began to relax (Walt hadn't even noticed the tension in his muscles until he felt it ease) as he became focused on the contact, just giving in to it and touching, grabbing, and he didn't tighten up when Walt's hand fell back onto warm skin of his leg.

Then, as before, he let go unexpectedly and turned away, his face flushed with embarrassment. "Mr. White, this is weird!"

Walt figured it was only a matter of time before Jesse just came out and said it. He still kind of wished he hadn't, though. "Well, come on and work with me here to make it less weird," he said sympathetically.

Jesse looked back at him, doubtful and hopeful at the same time. "How?"

"For starters, don't call me 'Mr. White'."

Jesse groaned. "That's just gonna make it weirder!"

Walt sighed. "Do you... I mean, is it really that..."

"Man, spit it out already."

"Do you really think it's weird?"

"Well, yeah," Jesse admitted decorously, noting Walt's unhappy expectancy. "What, you don't think so? Even kinda?"

"I suppose," Walt granted. "Just because it's not what either of us is used to."

_Are we talking about the name? Or the touching? Or the everything else that preceded that? Or all of it?_

"But you wanna get used to it, right?"

"Well, don't you?"

_Nice save, Walter._

Jesse started lacing his fingers again. "Yeah... I mean, I guess I do. We already did it and everything, so I guess I wanna..."

"You make it sound like you regret it," Walt said, and he could have slapped himself.

Jesse looked a little stung by the charge of regretting it- and a little irked. "I don't, I told you- I'm trying! I'm trying to get used to it, but you're freaking me out a little. And why do you keep saying stuff like that?"

_Asked and answered, as I would say. He's not upset about it, he's wiped out by it._

"I don't know. It's just you've been acting almost standoffish-" Jesse scoffed. "-And now you're saying I'm 'freaking you out'. It just... It _deters _me."

"Forgive me," Jesse rolled his eyes. "Can we not talk about it anymore?"

Yes, let it go, he told himself. But he couldn't help the inquiry. "Why not?"

"I just said it feels weird!" Jesse reminded him, then waved his hand. Never mind. "You'd get it if you'd been in my position."

This provoked Walt's immediate interest and turned his mind away from the rest of the conversation, from the rest of the entire day. Even before he spoke he knew he was about to steer things in a bad direction, and though his earlier premonition had been for nothing, he shouldn't have tried his luck.

"Are you saying you didn't like it?" he blurted.

Jesse looked at him sharply. "What the Hell kind of question is that?"

"A 'yes or no' one," Walt explained, a little too curtly. A lot too curtly. Jesse pulled away from him and Walt softened his tone but it was already too late. "I mean, did you... You know?"

And if he hadn't already changed the mood of the discussion and the atmosphere in general, he had now said the thing Jesse hadn't wanted him to, asked the question Jesse had successfully dodged like a bullet to the chest. Jesse didn't say so, but Walt knew the moment the words left his mouth that he'd put his foot in it.

Jesse had taken to staring at his knuckles. "I think I did," he mumbled.

"You _think _you did?" Walt repeated, the coarse edge back in his voice. Jesse's eyes shot up from his hands to give Walt another barbed look; that time Walt moved back, expanding the distance between them.

"I don't remember exactly!" Jesse defended. "I was drunk, if you forgot."

A chilly stretch of silence passed, during which Walt moved his gaze to the center of the room and Jesse began biting on his fingernails. Glass all neatly swept up amongst the blood stains on the floor. No, Walt hadn't forgotten it, he hadn't even really denied it, he had just... understated it. Finally he spoke, more to himself than to Jesse: "You weren't _that _drunk."

"No," Jesse agreed, lowering his voice. "But then what do you want me to say? Huh? What do you want from me?"

Walt didn't think there was a point in saying he didn't know. But they had reached a point of obscurity that he couldn't let slide by. "I just think you should know if you did or not."

"I know _you _did," Jesse retorted. "There was spunk all over everything, if that makes you feel better. How could I know if it was mine or yours?"

_It's biologically unlikely that he could get any real sexual fulfillment from that on the first try. You know that. You _know _that, so just stop, drop it, let him smolder._

But of course he didn't. Maybe because he was affronted that Jesse had suddenly turned hostile or maybe because there was some humiliation that accompanied the discovery that he might have been the only one to have gotten release the previous night and maybe even a little resentment towards himself for waiting so long to ask was thrown in as well. Whatever it was, Walt flared up, and he shouted: "Because, you moron, you should remember if you fucking came!"

"I _didn't_!" Jesse yelled back, appearing momentarily stunned by his own confession, but it neither quieted or stopped him, likely because he was inflamed by the 'moron' Walt had slipped in there. "I _didn't_, okay?! How was I supposed to?"

And oh, Walt thought it could have easily ended without that last question. _Biologically unlikely, _he reminded himself, but it's not like Jesse was thinking the same. Walt had obviously pushed it too far, and at a time when Jesse would be expectedly sensitive to the subject. He had seen Jesse this way once before, in the brief period where he stayed at Walt's apartment after rehab. Then it was as if he had been skinned and was still raw, as any touches or specific words or even certain looks would cause him to visibly stiffen. That time, though, Walter had let him be and had avoided the explosive confrontation that surely would have ensued the way it was doing now if he had hounded Jesse instead of allowing him to emotionally retreat.

"And if it's so goddamn important to you why didn't you notice last night?" Jesse raged on, increasing traces of apprehension and guilt on his face not matching the incense in his voice. "I don't think you were even paying attention to that then, so why'd you bring it up now? What's the big deal now, Mr. White?"

_I said to stop calling me that._

"You're the one making a big deal out of it!" Walt disputed childishly. "Iasked a simple question and you had to turn it into some-"

"Fuck off," Jesse interrupted, the juvenility of their fight seemingly complete.

No, Walt could do one better in the immaturity bracket. He got up to leave. "It's probably better if I just go," he said, the disdain in his voice thoroughly betraying the fact that he wanted to sit back down the instant he stood up. "... Hopefully you'll have calmed down later," he added, just for the proper spite. Jesse only looked at him as he took his first few steps away, his feet seeming to get heavier with each one, his mind screaming at him to stop being an asshole. Knowing this was entirely the wrong note to close on, Walt slowed until he was paused at the end of the futon, an apology sitting in the back of his throat, refusing to budge.

Jesse's response to this was a short, venomous laugh. "What're you waiting for, another invitation to fuck me?"

And though Walt knew he should have stayed, should have apologized, because despite how the events of the previous night had transpired Jesse was still the drunk one and the vulnerable one at the end of it all, he stomped out instead, slamming the door behind him.

_..._

_In the dark, the candles burn votively, tossing their sickly orange light across the needles which have already been spent up, reaching out to Jesse's almost inanimate body, not quite making it over the mattress and completely missing the girl. Jane. Pressed against him like a predator. Her dark hair swept away from her face, she looks like a wax dummy. They both do. The way they are now, they could easily be mannequins._

_Or corpses._

_Walt touches a needle, then quickly drops it in disgust. He has literally no understanding of the drug addict mindset, can't fathom what the appeal is for what's contained in those needles. It confuses him as much as it frustrates him, the way Jesse doesn't seem to grasp that he's hurting himself. And just when Walt thought he'd finally give explaining it to him a serious try, the kid just shoots up again and becomes incommunicable. It almost wouldn't be as bad if he would just admit to it, instead of pretending that he'd ever use the money to do anything besides get high, instead of pointlessly lying about it to Walter, as if the man is a total dolt and hasn't already seen Jesse as a paralytic zombie barely capable of imparting monosyllabic responses. _

_Attempting to rouse him is useless, Walt knows, but his endeavor here would feel incomplete if he didn't try. He fits his hand over the round bone of one bare shoulder and shoves, shoves again. If Jesse were awake he'd shove back but now he just mumbles a little without opening his eyes. Growling at him to wake up is also useless, Walt knows this just as well, but this entire odyssey is hopeless so why shouldn't he? As if his anger and his impatience will just magically reverse Jesse's near-lifelessness, as if it'll make him suddenly understand everything Walt wants to tell him without Walt speaking a word. Of course nothing happens. Walt didn't really expect anything to. _

_He turns away, defeated. His influence here is gone. It's just heroin and the girl now, and that's all it'll ever be in a repeating cycle until the bag of cash on the ground is emptied and Jesse is breathing his last someplace far away from here, possibly with one of these damn needles still jammed into his arm. But Walt, no, Walt has only just come to terms with the fact that he doesn't want that to happen, at all, ever. And he just wishes that Jesse would wake up so he could tell him that at least, if he can't have Jesse coming to his senses and cutting all of this out or, best of all, not taking off to an undisclosed location with hundreds of thousands of dollars in his pocket while developing an addiction to one of the most potent drugs available, he just wants Jesse to hear what he has to say. Even if he'll only disregard it as so much horseshit and continue on as he would anyway, Walt still wants to tell him. And he clings to the hope of having the opportunity to here tonight, and this is part of why he lingers on the edge of the bed instead of leaving. Leaving, like he should do because he knows how meaningless it is for him to remain here when Jesse is obviously not going to wake up. The diapers he's supposed to come home with are the farthest thing from his mind. How long he would have sat there and mourned someone still on this side of the grave, he doesn't know. It could have stayed that way for hours._

_Then, from behind him, Jane starts to choke. Walter had already forgotten about her. She makes her presence known now, gagging and heaving, so warped on heroin she remains unconscious all the while, and she must have ended up on her back when Walt shook Jesse, he didn't even notice it before. Instinctively he dashes around to her side of the bed and reaches out to turn her over._

_And stops just short of it._

_His hands freeze just inches from her. She continues to cough and suffocate and he still has time to make him arms go forward and roll her onto her side, but instead his arms become suspended. She's dying, he knows it. He can save her, he knows it too. Should he, though? This he internally debates with himself over in the space of seconds, and of course his immediate answer is _Yes, yes, yes, what the hell is wrong with you why are you even thinking about this turn her over she's dying! _but a darker part of his mind reminds him of her threats. Her snide comments. Why would he save that which is potentially hazardous, even deadly, to him? She knows everything she shouldn't know and doesn't appear to have any interest in even masquerading herself as trustworthy, even without the blackmail, because Walt can't hold her to that too much, it's a practice he himself isn't above. But she could destroy him. And she knows it. Should Walt take that risk by saving her? And for that matter, what is her value compared to that of his own family, whom she extensively threatens by promising Walter's exposure unless he plays by her rules? No, no one should ever be able to hold anything like that over his head._

Stop it. Stop it, don't start thinking that way, and don't just stand here. This is what a criminal would do. And you're not a criminal.

_Though nobody would ever believe him, he truly does come close to reconsidering his inaction upon this thought. This _is _what a criminal would do, and she should not die for Walter's paranoia. That isn't reason enough, it's miles away from being enough, and the muscles in his arms almost start to work again._

_And then he looks at Jesse._

_His arms draw back. _He _draws back, lowers his hands, stands still. Back bare and turned to this entire thing, the same poison that's killing the girl is swimming in Jesse's blood too. Walt can only imagine the way it will start to decompose him and thin him until there's nothing left holding him together, and this, this could be the example necessary to make Jesse realize, to make him know... without Walter having to say a word. Jesse won't remember that Walt has been here. As the thick, horrid gurgling noises start to grow fainter Walt grapples with himself one more time. If he doesn't save the girl Jesse will have to wake up next to her and find her, and that is horrific enough as a fictional scenario so Walt can't begin to comprehend how devastating it would be to actually live through. But if Walt does save her, will this same thing eventually happen to Jesse? Will he be accidentally pushed during an overdose while his girlfriend is too high to turn him over before he asphyxiates? Will he one day soon be writhing on his back in this way, vomit stuck in his throat and flowing over from his mouth as the last of his life is so slowly, so cruelly, torturously slowly stifled from him? If Walt is willing to risk the possibility of the girl blabbing off, is he also willing to risk _that?

_No. No he is not._

_So he goes totally motionless and lets it happen. And it's all parts due to the gruesome vulgarity of the death, to knowing how badly this will hurt Jesse, and just to Walt's human sympathy that moves him to a point of tears. Or one tear, to be precise. He can't lose it here, he doesn't have time, if he did he might break down and sob the way he had done when he killed Domingo. But he still has to go home before morning, and he leaves as though nothing out of the ordinary has occurred. If that had to happen why did he have to be there to witness it so it became something of a conscious decision to murder instead of an accident nobody could have prevented? Why why why? And thinking about Domingo brings to mind something he had said that now nearly swamps Walt with its pure irony._

This line of work doesn't suit you, Walter.

_He takes a watery breath and his hands close around his steering wheel. The shakiness leaves him very quickly- and why not? It's not like he can rewind and do it differently. It's over. It's done. For the greater good or the lesser evil, it's done. _

_The girl can never burn him to the ground now._

_And Jesse's not going anywhere but to rehab._

_..._

A specific location had not been in Walt's mind after leaving Jesse. He thought about going home to change his shirt but instead only continued to drive aimlessly, watching the headlights get brighter as the sun began to set. He thought about how it was good to have a job where he didn't have to work a full week, he thought about the computer he had bought for Walt Jr., and he didn't think about Jesse. He took a call from Hank and spoke naturally and at great lengths, afterwards he played with his ringtone, and he didn't call Jesse. He didn't watch the clock or wait for his cellphone to ring, he just drove, stopping once to buy a hamburger that he ate without enthusiasm. Eventually snow started to fall again, lightly this time, and before he knew it he was watching the powder trickle down against a black night sky.

At some point during his purposeless expedition he found himself parked out front of the tiny one-story duplex that Jesse used to live in. That Jane used to live in with him. Walt was confused about why Jane had ended up on his mind, but as he watched snow gather on the sidewalks he realized that when Jesse had been with Jane was the first time the delicate balance between him and Walt had been upset. He stopped listening, he stopped following, and part of Walter hated that. He didn't want to admit it, but it was true. Jane had caused that somehow, or had at least stimulated it... and she had died almost for that alone. Walt baffled himself with the depths of his own naiveté in ever believing he knew how her death would affect Jesse. And still Walt couldn't help commiserating himself; he had just wanted his partner back, after all. But if he honestly believed he had done the 'right' thing, why didn't his reasoning, his rationalizing, ever feel completely solid to him? Sometimes a highly self-disparaging part of him would even relate what he had done to the desperate last resort of a very jealous man. What did Walt call it? Proprietary selfishness. That was it.

As Walt pulled away from the building he remembered how Jesse had once unknowingly but in essence forgiven him for Jane's death. Would Jesse ever tell him it wasn't his fault if he knew that Walt had stood there and watched it happen? What _would _ Jesse do if he knew? It was impossible to predict, though their unorthodox relationship had weathered many things; recent events to be determined. If allowing Jane to die had any correlation to jealousies of his, so too had his and Jesse's last argument. He had basically tried to verbally corner Jesse into saying what Walt wanted to hear, he had even tried to pressure him into open displays of affection and satisfaction. Was it really for any benefit of Jesse's, or just to mollify Walt's insecurities over the matter? And had those insecurities been unjustified in the end?

Walt was almost afraid to know the answer. But he also didn't want to let it all play out like so many endeavors before it. That would be idiotic, and wrong, and yet he couldn't seem to get his car to go above thirty mph. It huffed and dragged its way in the direction of Jesse's house, silently begging Walt to go find a hole to crawl into while everything blew over.

No such hole existed, and Walt was back at Jesse's front door much sooner than he was ready. He reached out to knock, taking for granted that Jesse would have locked it after Walt left. But maybe he hadn't, and Walt knocking would remind him to? Maybe Walt had a chance to just let himself in. If it was locked, Jesse would know right away who was knocking and he wouldn't let him in anyway. So what was the most rational course of action? Walt stood thinking about this for several minutes while snow collected on his shoulders. Finally he just reached out and turned the door handle. It opened.

He expected some kind of devastated, remnants-of-a-war-zone scene to greet him. More broken glass, more blood, more alcohol. He expected it to look like a nuclear blast had gone off. He expected another deliriously drunk Jesse. He even half expected an offer for another aberrant lay. Make-up sex. It was a hideous thought and he didn't want to think it but it was there.

Fortunately, history apparently doesn't repeat itself as much as Walt assumed it did.

The living room was exactly as it had been when he left. The glass had not been thrown away nor had the blood been wiped up. Jesse was even still on the futon. The only thing that was different was that he was asleep. He had moved at some point, enough to have put on one of his many hooded sweaters and a black beanie hat to defend himself against the cold as the temperature dropped. He looked younger when he dressed that way, and Walt frowned a little at the sight of him. He was more than old enough to be Jesse's father and Jesse had done everything except call him 'dad' to make it obvious that he sometimes thought of Walt as one. Had Walt conveniently forgotten that fact or had he subliminally abused it? He ran his hand over his face, feeling suddenly ailed looking at Jesse, right where he had been when Walt left. His legs were covered by the blanket and drawn up close to his chest in a sort of fetal position, on his side and facing the coffee table, where his cactus sat. Watching over him, just a small token of Saul's unique counsel. Beside the cactus was the jar of Vaseline. Walt stopped his steps which he hadn't even realized he had started when he looked at it. If Jesse had used him in any way then Walt had used him right back, because Jesse was right: Walt hadn't really been paying attention to whether Jesse was enjoying it. Had last night been any different from any other thing he and Jesse had ever done together, when it was down to its core? The more Walt thought about it the more it seemed the answer was no, the more it seemed that they had only done what they always did to each other: that last night had only been mutually exploitive. Nothing more.

But if that had to be true, it was still worthwhile for Walt to return and attempt to salvage what he could, even if they just went back to not being able to see the other without justification. Walt reached out to shake Jesse by the shoulder, but stopped himself just in time, his eyes wandering towards the door. What if Jesse was waiting until Walt came back to unleash more of his ballistic anger? What if it was better for Walt to just turn around and walk out, come back tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that? What if-

"Jesus Christ, you scared the shit out of me," came Jesse's voice in a short breath. Walt nearly jumped and looked over at Jesse again, who was staring up at him, wide-eyed.

He almost said 'sorry' as a reflex, but he didn't want to rob the word of its value right away when he still had much more important uses for it. "My bad," he substituted.

Jesse cocked an eyebrow tiredly and bunched himself closer together to make room on the futon. Walt sat down next to his head. "What time is it?"

Walt looked at his wrist to check his watch and raised his eyebrows. "Oh. It's almost midnight." Again avoiding the impulse to say sorry for letting himself into the house and waking him up in the middle of the night just so he could sit down and say nothing.

For many, many miserable minutes.

_Go point-by-point and cover all the bases. Be concise. ... But where to start?_

"I'm sorry for being a dick," Jesse said suddenly. Walt looked over at him, too startled to speak. Jesse was propped on his elbows and had pulled his hat off, and he began twisting it through his fingers, like he was trying to rip it apart. "I shouldn't have told you to fuck off, or... anything." Eyes downcast and voice low, he looked exactly like a child begrudgingly accepting a reprimand.

_I've seen you like this before. In a classroom. _

Walt shut his eyes. He didn't want to look at Jesse when he was like that.

"I don't know why I got so mad. I wasn't even mad about it, but I knew you were gonna get all pissed off and then it was like... like it was my fault or something."

He couldn't just sit there and listen to that. And yet all his words were still immobile on his tongue.

"And it was all so screwed up and you were trying to make it normal, and I tried, I _wanted _to do it too, but it was just so... and then you left and I thought..." Walt opened his eyes again. Jesse was now wringing the hat like he was trying to kill it, his features slightly disturbed as if only distantly feeling the pain in his hands. "I dunno. I just thought I fucked it all up- well, worse than before, when you left like that. Seriously, I thought the door was gonna fall off its hinges."

"I'm sorry," Walt broke in finally. Out of everything, that's all his mouth would let him apologize for. Slamming the door so hard it seemed like it might break. Then again, out of everything, that might have been the worst.

"It's okay, I don't give a shit about the door," Jesse told him. He had finally released the death grip on his hat, at least, although his eyes still couldn't quite raise themselves from it. "But I didn't think you were gonna come back." Again Walt couldn't reply. "Don't do that again, man. Okay? Like, ever. I mean it."

Sometimes, oftentimes, Walt would forget pieces or large portions or even the entire bulk of his and Jesse's history and acknowledge only the present, letting all the things they had seen and suffered through become almost insignificant... But some moments would bring it back. Like the time he had walked into a hospital room to see Jesse's face a battered, purple caricature of itself, some things would bring it back. All of it.

"I won't."

Jesse eased off his elbows and lay on his side again, his face resting on his arm. Walt thought he would say something more, but apparently Jesse had said all he meant to. And Walt, who had come over with the intention of spilling his guts and maybe even begging forgiveness, had said almost nothing thus far. More than anything he still needed closure on what had happened the night before, and he opened his mouth to speak only to shut it again right after. He didn't know how to go about articulating what he wanted to say. He wanted it to come out sounding noble and selfless, because he was trying to give Jesse final authority over what ever would come next, but he couldn't think of a way to say it that wouldn't make it look like he was trying to avoid responsibility for the situation.

Also, part of him was certain Jesse was going to want to act like nothing had happened. And that part of him feared the rejection. He thought of the times when he had referred to Jesse as family, wondering if he had been trying to make a permanent psychological association with it any time he thought of Jesse so that what he wanted would seem absolutely unattainable and unacceptably reprehensible. But the simple fact remained that Jesse wasn't Walt's son, and it wasn't that wrong.

"You know when you said earlier, that you were trying to get used to things being different..." Walt cleared his throat noisily. Jesse raised his head again, watching him carefully. "... We don't have to get used to anything else if you don't want to."

Jesse was silent for a moment. "... What do you wanna do?"

Walt shook his head. "No, I'm asking you. It should be your call. I'll do whatever you want to do."

"You're not just saying that so I have do everything, are you?"

"No, no! It's out of respect. God knows it's overdue."

Jesse looked away, over at the cactus, as if asking for its opinion in the matter. For its guidance. Protection. Like it was Saul and not just a gift from the man. After awhile Walt joined him, wondering how much of his dignity he could retain if Jesse decided they should just flat out deny ever being within a hundred yards of each other on Christmas evening. Wondering if the cactus was a symbol for protection because of the sharp spines that covered it. Finally Jesse sighed and rubbed his eyes. Apparently the plant hadn't had any answers for him either.

"I don't fucking know, man," he said. "After today I wanna do what's easy and _not _totally weird, but..."

Walt was quiet, a silent gesture to 'go on'.

"You know we both suck at moving on from things. And the other night when I did all that stuff... all of that stuff, not just the- the -_ thing,_ I wanted something to be different, I guess. But then today it was like we were trying to pick fights with each other so it _wouldn't _be different, so I don't even know. I don't know what I wanna do."

Hardly conclusive. Walt leaned back against the futon, stretching his legs out until his feet were against the coffee table. He wouldn't start to think of the previous night as a mistake, no matter what Jesse said about it. In a way it wasn't even about the sex. It was just about them, and-

Jesse touched his leg. "But, y'know, I didn't mind you hanging around earlier." Walt looked down and saw that he had shifted closer. Now he moved his hand from where it had been and timidly rested his head there, against Walt's thigh.

It was nothing concrete, Walt thought, but it was something, and a lot more than he thought he would get. Outside he could hear the wind already starting to pick up. The storms of last night had come without anyone expecting them and without anyone suspecting they could reoccur, and for Walt certain other things had taken on that same enigmatic quality. He lifted his hand and slowly placed it on Jesse's shoulder, gradually repositioning it until it rested on his head. If the snow outside was any example, Walt thought it was a fair principle to believe that if something would happen once, it would happen again.

"I'm not gonna stop calling you 'Mr. White' though," Jesse muttered, sounding half-asleep.

That could be obstacle number one, or he could just accept it. After a morning of inane bickering, the idea that Jesse still didn't want to call him Walt didn't strike him as being outside the realm of normalcy. As utterly bizarre as that realm of normalcy was. There were still obstacles, plenty of them, but the fact that he might always be Mr. White here wasn't one of them. After all, it was Jesse who did a lot towards even keeping that identity alive amidst the lunacy. Keeping the Mr. White in and the Heisenberg out.

Walt smiled a little in the semi-darkness, his fingers starting to run over the messy tufts of hair. "That's fine with me."


	3. Ad Absurdum

**Ad Absurdum**

Jesse paces back and forth across the cement, back and forth, back and forth, over bits of alley garbage and puddles that have been hidden behind the shade of the building where the sun can't hope to dry them up, and the sun is long since gone anyway. It seems like he's been doing this forever, that it's only minutes until his shoes fall apart and he sets to work burning off the skin of his feet with this useless, endless pacing. He's trying to smoke a cigarette at the same time and the smoke trails around after him, blown apart each time he walks through it, and after another few seconds he rips the cigarette from his mouth and steps on it. Back and forth, back and forth, over and over.

Walt finally dares to speak again- the last time he did Jesse nearly had a fit in front of the building, and it's a miracle Walt was able to persuade him to move out of view and earshot of the bar patrons. "Jesse, come on, let's just go back inside and talk this through. Come finish your drink, calm down."

Jesse turns on him again, at least less loudly, less intensely, than before. "I don't want the fucking drink, dumbass, and I sure as Hell don't wanna calm down. How can you be cool with this?"

Walt rubs his temples. He isn't 'cool with it', necessarily, but he isn't a vigilante by any definition, and he didn't think Jesse was either. The way he looks now is a way Walt has never seen him, malignant and outraged, a walking coil of fury that appears to be seconds from bursting out, and Walt starts to worry that he might be serious. Or at least he thinks he is, and if he believes it long enough, he might even try to go through with what he has planned.

"How did you even find out about this?" Walt asks, partly just to distract him.

Jesse, thankfully, doesn't notice or care about the dodge of his question. "I told you I heard it from the kid's sister- God, I went over to her place the other day, just thinkin' we'd hang out, and she starts talking about maybe doing some crystal out of nowhere, I mean, I brought it up before but I didn't think she'd-"

"Wait, what are you talking about?" Walt interrupts. Talk of doing some crystal? Jesus, since when? Is that what Jesse was doing with the stolen product?

The raw, explosive anger is abruptly punctuated with a sliver of guilt. "She wanted me to get her some, but she's from that stupid group thing, and she has a kid... I mean, she has a_ kid _and she was askin' for crystal. I kinda flipped on her a bit and then she said something about her brother..." Jesse stops here and begins pacing again and Walt starts a brief speculation. Some woman from the meetings - asking for crystal - a kid - her brother - some woman - crystal - with a kid - some...

"Were you sleeping with her?" The question slips out impetuously, without Walt meaning it to, sounding invasive and idiotic and pathetic.

"What does that-" Jesse pauses and looks over at him and Walt is surprised to see him smirk a little even when his eyes still look so infuriated. "Oh my God, don't tell me you're jealous, Mr. White."

They haven't really talked about it. Not at all, actually. But there have been small deviations in their old way of doing things. There have been touches, the kind that linger, there have been looks, there have been times when they shouldn't have been together but they were; but they haven't talked about it, and they've coasted along under everybody's radar so far. They work and Walt still has dinner with his family as normal, and apparently things are going as usual on Jesse's end too if he's got a woman from his support group as a bed-mate.

They haven't talked about it.

"I didn't mean it like that," Walt says quickly, and he's grateful when Jesse doesn't ask what he did mean it like, because he wouldn't have had an answer.

"It hasn't been like that with her for awhile," Jesse claims, and though his pacing starts again, it's not yet as fast and hateful as it was before. "I've just been going to her place sometimes after meetings. This last time, she was sorta acting like she wanted to do something and I just kinda blew her off, and maybe that's why she asked about the damn crystal, because, y'know, we don't even really know each other, so if we're not fucking what are we doing? May as well get high, right?" Jesse's voice starts to climb again, his footsteps get quicker, the scrap of composure he momentarily regained starts to melt away. "Maybe I shoulda just done it, then I wouldn't have ever heard about her brother or those scumbag assholes that killed Combo, and - and-" A low, guttural sound of absolute loathing overrides the rest of his words, his hands begin to ball in and out of fists, and Walt just watches, not knowing what to say, not knowing what to do, wishing Jesse would calm down and keep this in some kind of perspective. But he thinks he can get away with it like he thinks he has gotten away with the stealing; he doesn't know that the only reason he's survived this long is because Walt has watched him like a hawk in the lab and pretended not to understand casual over-dinner advice to never make the same mistake twice. Jesse thinks he's put one past Gus and can do it again but Walt knows better, he knows that if Jesse goes through with this Gus will forget about getting Walt's blessing to have Jesse killed, because Gus will find out, somehow, he always does, and Gus isn't even the worst of it, he-

Jesse tugs on Walt's clothes. He's stopped in front of him, closer than Walt realized he had gotten, and his hands finally uncurl from those fists and begin pulling on Walt's shirt, his belt, and Walt's mind takes a second to catch up but when it finally does he jerks away. "Jesus Christ, what are you thinking?" Even as he says this heat has already started to build, and he doesn't stop Jesse from grabbing his shirt again. "Not here," he resists. "Jesse- stop it, not here, someone could-"

"I don't care," Jesse tells him, and there's no doubt that he means it. The back entrance of the bar is in plain view under the dim bulb above it, any minute someone could come from there and see them, but, God, it's been so long. Jesse's nails press into Walt in a way that's wonderfully familiar and he tries once more for a suggestion to go somewhere, fairly certain it's futile. "No, right here," Jesse asserts, he all but demands, and Walt wonders if it's the difference between Jesse killing a couple of guys and Jesse just letting it go. That makes it a type of coercion, Walt knows, and while that should rob the whole thing of much of its pleasure, it's just... it's been so long.

He briefly forgets about the possibility of being caught and backs Jesse against the wall, almost dauntlessly close to the door, and even before he kisses him Jesse's hands are back at his belt, fighting to get it open. Jesse's not wearing a belt so Walt's job is much easier, he doesn't even have to unzip the jeans to pull them down, and in all Jesse's haste to get them off he ends up kicking his shoes across the alley and one of them bangs into a garbage can. Walt freezes, Jesse doesn't, and he wins his battle with the belt and Walt can still feel the burning rage coming off of him like poison gas but now it's starting to ebb a little. Not much, but enough, and he pushes against Jesse just as he finishes getting his pants open.

"It'll be better this time, I promise," Walt says, he's not sure why, since they're in an alley and Jesse's not drunk so he can't pretend that he doesn't feel anything. "I can do something to... you know, make it easier."

Jesse looks like he could not give less of a shit and Walt actually thinks he's not going to say anything for a moment. Then he shrugs impatiently and mutters: "Go ahead."

Both sets of hands move to get rid of the boxer shorts and while Jesse's eyes are down he chances a peek at Walt and snorts laughter. "Tighty-whities," he says under his breath, which he then sucks in and holds as the first spit-slicked finger slides into him. He squeezes Walt's arm hard enough to hurt as the second goes in, sways a little and shuts his eyes, and when Walt shows signs of contemplating another he gathers enough air to say "Holy fuck, dude, don't flatter yourself."

They're so close to the parking lot that Walt can hear the cars when they start up and drive away, he can even sometimes hear the soft murmuring of unintelligible conversation on the other side of the building, and it'll be an earth-shattering wonder if no one catches them. But with Jesse leaning on him as Walt's fingers penetrate him the idea starts to seem not all that frightening and is instead much more exciting, dangerously so. As Walt imagines a bartender or server coming through the backdoor to toss out the leftover chicken wings and discovering them he feels an instant, maddening stiffness in his groin, and suddenly he's a lot less concerned with making it easier for Jesse, and he can't wait any longer, he wants him _now._

Jesse lets out his breath in unison with the withdrawal of Walt's fingers but that's as much time as he gets to himself, because Walt is immediately pressed against him again, shimmying so his briefs and pants drop to his ankles. Then he shoves Jesse harder up against the wall, his feet leave the ground and Walt gets his legs up and around him, not wasting any time but he doesn't think Jesse minds, and he lets out all his breath when Walt thrusts his body upwards. Nails scrabble across his back, malice and animosity flowing through the touch until they're sure they've bitten into skin, at which point the nails become fingertips that grope along with an almost pitiful desperation. Anger broods underneath like an infection but it's becoming less as Walt's movements quicken; he's ignorant to what it actually feels like on the other end so he tries to go slow at first, but their position doesn't leave much allowance for that and Walt would have a hard enough time with it even if it did.

Jesse doesn't kiss him, he closes his eyes, keeps his head up against the wall, and with the way his throat moves Walt thinks it's taking an amazing effort for him to be even as quiet as he is. Walt himself is more silent than he intended himself to be and he supposes that even though there's something thrilling about the idea of being found out, they're still trying not to intentionally reveal themselves. They're obvious enough already, and the game's not quite as fun if the playing field's not fair.

Eventually he hears himself start to speak. "Jesse, promise me-" Breath. "-you won't do anything."

If he gets any response, the most he expects is an unsympathetic_ I'm not promising you shit_, at the least a blunt _No_. He doesn't even think Jesse'll open his eyes for it. He does though, and his mouth, but he doesn't say anything for a second, he has to breathe. Then: "Make me." And all the immaturity, the flash of complete childish mirth in his eyes like the whole thing is just a big joke, it all makes it impossible to forget everything about Jesse that should grind Walt's desire into nonexistence- but, no, it does the opposite, and why does he want it and why does he like it and why does he want it?

The questions stop mattering - they never mattered, he guesses - as he leans in and kisses Jesse's lips and Jesse, against anticipation, kisses him back. His hands knot together behind Walt's neck and suddenly he's breathing faster, twisting a little, but not with discomfort, and the small noises that escape him stop sounding like they're composed entirely of pain and become entangled with something else, something that sends a warm rush through Walt's skin. And it enables him to put the rest of it out of his mind, which is just fine with him, that he doesn't have to remember a cold face dark with the need for a pointless revenge and a spoken oath to spill blood by any means, or even just that wired, uncontrolled pacing, like a wild animal in a cage, impatient with a lust for the kill. He can disregard those things just as expediently as he can disregard split hands and shattered glass. He supposes he'll never understand why Jesse's torment over this is so great, partly because it still doesn't make sense to him how Jesse of all people could want to murder anyone, but at least now it all takes on the unreal quality of a nightmare, because the person he's pressed against and inside of again couldn't have possibly said any of those things. No. He hears the cars less and the gasps for air more, letting the pleasure wash over him, and he doesn't think, he doesn't think, because it's just Jesse. It's just Jesse.

And, too soon, he can feel it ending and Walt tries to say something else but it falls apart in a heavy exhalation and everything in him starts to surge forward and he tenses up, shivers, explodes. He holds still for a moment while the world comes back into focus, then he pulls out but not away, not yet, Jesse's feet touch the ground again and Walt leans against him as they recover their breath. When Jesse does he starts to fidget and when Walt backs off he sees he's pulling on his t-shirt.

"Uh, could you go back into the bar and get some tissue or something?" he asks, almost in a whisper, looking off at nothing. Walt's eyebrows start to go up and when he doesn't reply right away Jesse looks over at him and glares. "Yeah, yeah, you know, I could see your ego from space right now. Just go get me some napkins or something already, wouldya?"

Walt does as he's asked. Now that it's over he can't have any delusions about why it even happened but he also can't pretend that he's not intrigued by Jesse's response this time. Again he wonders if maybe it was the prospect of being caught in the act, and when he thinks of that it occurs to him that, astoundingly, they weren't spotted. They got away with it... but the longer he thinks of it, stuffing tissues from the bathroom into his pockets, the less it confounds him. The more it seems to actually fit into the natural order.

..

_A week is a long time._

Or so Walt told himself as he lay on his back looking up at his ceiling. It had been a quiet week, with tension humming through it in an unpleasant current, but it had been an uneventful week, and he was grateful for that at least. Jesse still seemed unhappy and constantly agitated, but he hadn't asked for ricin again, hadn't made any indication that he might still carry out his plan.

_But if he does you know he'll tell you that he didn't promise you a damn thing._

Walt began picking at the corner of his bed sheet. Jesse hadn't promised him anything, but that was meant to be implicit, wasn't it? After all, Walt had sort of expected Jesse would leave while he was in the bar getting tissue, and he hadn't. He had stayed, and he had _said_ he wouldn't do anything, but there were still no promises. And Jesse had already made it apparent that he didn't have any issues with lying to Walt.

_But a week is a long time. If he was going to do anything he would have done it by now._

Soft murmuring from the other side of the bed broke Walt out of his deliberations. He rolled over to check if Jesse was waking up, but after another few seconds of incomprehensible gibberish he settled again, on his side with his back facing Walt. Walt reached out and touched the space between his shoulder blades, then let his hand drop. In his bed with him. A more perfect example of them being together when they shouldn't be, Walt doubted there existed one. But after last week, Jesse hadn't made any pretense of being coy with him, even as he remained bad-tempered throughout the day, and Walt figured he wouldn't be incorrect in suspecting that he was being employed as something of a stress reliever. As odd as it seemed to him, and as wrong as he knew it was, for some reason that prospect left him unruffled. He assumed it was mostly because he could tolerate being used if it meant it would keep Jesse from beating his own record for stupid ideas... not that he had put all his eggs in one basket. He had been to see Saul earlier in the week to ask about some of the man's services in case he should ever need them to stop Jesse from making a huge mistake, as a precautionary measure. He had tried not to let on that Jesse was the reason for the visit, but Saul had watched him mockingly the entire time, too razor sharp for his own annoying good, and at one point he had finally just come out and inquired if the meeting had anything to do with "that prickly young associate" of his.

"And what if it does?" Walt had said. Well, snapped was maybe a better way of putting it.

Saul didn't flinch, he smirked. "Jeez, testy. I'm just saying I really don't get why you go to so much trouble trying to cover for him."

"Then I suppose you should be glad it's not your business."

Saul looked confused but he didn't lose his composure for a second. "What's with you today? Am I missing something? Did you and the kid finally consummate the marriage?"

Walt's not sure how his face must have looked then, horrified or angered or maybe just blank. Either way Saul's eyebrows went up on his forehead and he muttered, "Joking."

So perhaps they hadn't been quite as far under the radar as Walt thought they were... or Saul had just made a strangely acute remark without realizing it. It was really hard to tell with all the space in his head being occupied by truckloads of new worries. That must have been part of why he didn't mind Jesse's suspicious new attachment to him, whether Jesse knew it or not, the stress relief was a two-way street. Not that Walt had ever wanted it to be that way. But if that's how it was going to be, for at least as long as it took Jesse to get over this nonsense with the dealers, then Walt would accept it. He would accept it because he had frighteningly little power over his own body and because he still loved the idea of the closeness, as much as it began to seem an illusion to him since the week before.

He reached out and touched Jesse's back again, running his hand over his shoulder, then slipping it under his arm. Yes, he still had the ability to delude himself.


End file.
